


Undone by Dreams (Can You Fix Me)

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Demons, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Institutions, Molestation, Mutism, Schizophrenia, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of Sam Campbell's life has been spent in mental hospitals and psychiatric institutions. Long deemed to be an incurable schizophrenic, his real-world life is depressing and detached. Inside his mind, a riot of demons create endless nightmares and torture for the mute young man.</p>
<p>At his latest hospital, two new figures enter his life: Dr. Castiel Novak, the doctor who is determined to help Sam out of his darkness, and Dean Winchester, a ward attendant who takes a shine to the troubled young man. Together, both men try to help Sam break free from his demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: 
> 
> I mean no harm to anyone with this story, nor am I gaining any profit. I have never been in a psychiatric hospital or institution myself, so please accept any liberties I take as fictional license.
> 
> Appreciations: 
> 
> Applause and gratitude to alexisjane for the fantastic art she created! She was totally receptive to the story from the moment she read it, and I love the completion of her vision!
> 
> Many, many thanks to tolakasa for the heavy lifting of the first beta read and hashing out various issues with me. Also thanks to katstark for providing a second beta and making sure I didn't make a thousand new mistakes ;-D
> 
> Hugs and thanks to dolnmoon, etoile_etiolee, and roxymissrose for reading (very!) rough drafts and giving feedback, suggestions, and support all the way through. I could never have gotten this story done and ready to present without all of you!!! Thank you!
> 
> Finally, thanks to riyku and flawlessglitch, the mods of samdean_otp, for creating and hosting this fantastic challenge, the Sam/Dean Minibang!!!

"Dr. Novak, your office is this way."

The blonde nurse in navy scrubs indicates a hallway branching off the main lobby of the Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital. Dr. Castiel Novak, Psy.D., looks around the lobby once more, noting the tired plastic foliage, the muted, watery lighting, the scuffed black and white checkered floor. Even sounds are muted--soft conversations, placating words aimed to soothe, punctuated by footsteps and doors opening and closing in the distance.

_Why must these places all look the same?_ he thinks. _Who can find hope in surroundings such as these?_

He sighs, deliberately turning away from the despair in his surroundings, and faces the nurse, who was waiting patiently. "Thank you, Miss Harvelle." He lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. "I'm ready. Please go on."

"Sam."

"Sam."

" _Sam,_ I know you can hear me, there's nothing wrong with your ears. _Sam._ "

A heavy sigh, air puffing past his face. He doesn't blink.

"Sam, it's time for your meds. Come on now, sit up and take your cup of water."

A hand, small but strong, picks up his own limp one and pushes a paper cup into it. His fingers stay lax.

"Come _on_ , Sam. Don't make me get the head nurse again. You know how pissy Miss Bela gets."

Memories of struggle, of jaws forced open and then shut, choking on water and pills, drift through his mind. No, he doesn't want that again.

Besides, then Alastair will come, drawn to Sam's pain like a bee to honey.

He shivers, curls his fingers around the cup. Holds it.

Relief colors the crisp female voice, softened by a slight Midwestern accent. "That's a good boy. Down the hatch. And no hiding, I'm going to check."

The water is flat, warm against his throat. He still feels the raspiness from last night's screaming, uncontrollable until the cool silver needle slipped into his arm and the dark clouds of sedation obscured Alastair's face. Alastair and Crowley had teamed up to torment him, Crowley teasing him with promises of relief and peace while Alastair slowly dragged his scalpel over Sam's body, driving the point in randomly so Sam couldn't brace himself against the pain. In the background, Meg laughed and teased him, running her hands along the bloody scrapes and poking mischievous fingers into the wounds.

The attendants had come, but--as always--they couldn't see Alastair, Crowley, Meg, the blood. They only saw Sam, only heard his shrieks, and they covered him with their heavy bodies as they administered the sedative that would not banish his demons, but would at least give him some relief from them.

Nothing will banish them. Sam knows that like he knows how the hallways smells like floor wax, like how he knows the eggs always taste like rubber. It's always been this way.

He has no expectation that it will ever change.

Today, though, he's able to see the sun trickle in through the thick, faintly greenish glass with the embedded chicken wire, bathing his room in something of an underwater radiance. He stretches out a hand and admires the light playing on his pale skin, highlighting the bones beneath it.

"All right now, up you go. Go into the activity room for a while. You'll meet your new doctor later, okay?" Jo pats him on the shoulder and urges him to move. He likes her--she's gentler than most of them. The sun shines on her golden hair and makes him think of honey, like liquid light.

He nods apathetically. He's had lots of new doctors over his years of being institutionalized. Men, women, young, old. None of them were strong enough to defeat his coterie of angels and demons. They tried, but then they gave up and left, while Sam remained here, always by himself but never alone. Not with Alastair the Punisher, Crowley the Conniver, and Meg the Mischievous around. On other days, it might be Kevin the Questioner with him, always seeking answers Sam couldn't give, or Chuck the Absolver, eternally forgiving Sam but never freeing him. Balthazar the Rogue laughs at his own ribald behavior, and Gabriel the Joker plays tricks might actually be truly funny, but often leave Sam feeling even more drained afterward. Laughter is usually hollow in Sam's world, echoing around the empty places inside, bouncing off the sharp edges that are left after his gods have toyed with him.

He moves into the activity room, drifting along the pale blue walls, detouring around battered, worn furniture. Patients in a rainbow of pajamas and sweats are busy: there are books and puzzles, games, a corner with craft materials. A television is in another corner, where half a dozen people are watching a movie. He thinks there's a blonde mermaid in it, but he can't focus because Balthazar is whispering innuendos in his ear. Sam absently brushes at it, as if The Rogue is a buzzing mosquito. It does no good. _Bzz bzz. Look at those tits, Sammy, wanna squeeze those ripe, juicy melons? I sure do! Bzz bzz. Pokies, Sammy, pokies!_

Sam slouches into a chair off to one side. He can look out the window here and watch the trees. Sometimes other patients are walking on the lawn with their visitors. He remembers the last time Gwen came to see him and how they walked outside; her delicate features pulled down by sadness, her dark eyes awash with tears.

_"Please, Sam, please . . . can't you . . . try to move past your fantasies, once and for all? I love you, I miss you--we all do. Please, Sam . . .please just try . . . "_

He heard the pain in her voice, but he couldn't respond. Alastair and his crew had taught him how even attempting to speak his thoughts would be rewarded. Pain, pain, and more pain, administered in methods incredibly exquisite and thorough.

_"Sam, I can't . . . I'm not going to come here anymore. I'm sorry, I just can't . . . I can't see you like this anymore--it hurts too much. I've tried and tried, but I can't . . . if you could just . . . just reach out to us, to me . . . "_ She picked his hand up from the wooden park bench. The warmth of her hand burnt him, but he sat unmoving. He watched to see if smoke would spiral up from his blackening skin.

She put his hand back down. He was surprised to see it intact, curled up his fingers to examine his pink skin.

_"Goodbye, Sam. I love you."_ Her breath hitched on the last words.

He stared at her until her eyes fell away, and then he watched her stand up, walk toward the gate. She hesitated, her dark curls shaking _Tears? Laughter? Does her body shake from grief or relief?_ asked Kevin, but Sam didn't know, and he wondered idly if she would turn back to him. _Twenty points if she looks back at you!_ laughed Gabriel, snapping his fingers. _But twenty lashes if she doesn't!_

She didn't, and Sam spent the afternoon on Alastair's whipping post, feeling the bullwhip lay heavy stripes down his back, until his skin split beneath its weight and rich red blood spattered down like the tears that fell from Sam's eyes.

The next visiting day, he sat in the parlor, huddled at one end of a sofa and hugging a squishy round cushion against his chest. Balthazar uttered dirty little bon mots about all the visitors . _That ass, mm mm mmm, wanna bury my dick in it; no bra on that one, her nips are gonna tear holes in that sweater; look how she walks, she'd be great in the sack with those rolling hips!_ Meg teased him for hoping and waiting even if he won't admit it, sitting dry-eyed and staring. Finally Chuck arrived, peaceful Chuck the Absolver, with his large, shadowed, lemur eyes. He sat down in front of Sam and rested a hand on Sam's bony shoulder.

_It's okay,_ he said softly. _It's all right to wish for her; to hope that your family hasn't just forgotten you, written you off. I forgive you, Sam. I forgive you. No one will hurt you for believing and hoping what you have no business to hope for. Not today._

And Sam was spared that day, spared of any punishment save for the ache of his unmet longing and the pain of being truly alone.

She'd been the last of Sam's family to come visit him at all. The rest of the family, what there was of them, had pretty much already abandoned him by then. His grandfather who raised him, stern and strict as a drill sergeant; he's never understood Sam's illness. Samuel's world is black and white, and the gradations therein does not register in his eyes; he is colorblind to anything outside his own stark philosophy. Sam's other cousins fell away as they built their own lives, and he was not there to participate in them. His world is the institution; the doctors, nurses, orderlies, attendants. The routine of meals and therapy and meds, day after endless day. The emptiness of daytime and the horror that can be the night--darkness illuminated by the pantheon of Sam's personal spectrum of supernatural beings, most of whom gloried in causing Sam endless pain and unremitting horror.

"Sam."

He starts at the voice, turning to see Garth bending toward him. Like all the nurses, Garth knows not to touch Sam if he could help it. Like Jo, he is kinder than most.

"Sam, it's time to meet your new doctor. C'mon, hop on up and we'll go to his office, okay?"

The calm in Garth's face is belied by the hands poised to catch or block Sam as necessary. Sam's usual quietude and aimless movements only need a second to shatter into violence and speed, a transformation that never fails to startle Sam himself when it happens.

It doesn't happen now. Sam stands up and follows Garth obediently out of the activity room, down a hallway, through the lobby. They cross into the doctors' wing, where all the offices and treatment rooms are. Sam eyes each door dully, eyes gliding across the names: Dr. D. Elkins, Dr. R. Turner, Dr. A. Hawkins, Dr. P. Barnes. The fifth door says "Dr. C. Novak", and it is here that Garth stops.

He knocks on the door, and a male voice answers, "Come in."

Garth opens the door and waits for Sam to enter before entering himself and closing the door. Sam studies Garth's ski slope nose and narrow chin as Garth addresses the doctor.

"Hi, Dr. Novak, I'm Garth Fitzgerald. I'm one of the day nurses for D Ward. This is Sam Campbell, he's one of your patients. His file's on your desk." Garth gestures to the pile of folders on the dark, carved wood desk. He clears his throat and continue the introduction. "Sam is generally pretty mellow, but sometimes he gets a little _excited,_ so there will always be an attendant outside the door in case you need help."

"Thank you, Garth. Uh . . .Is that really necessary?"

Garth coughs and says, "There's a section in his file about it, sir. I respectfully suggest you look it over before changing protocol, for your own safety." 

Sam knows what's in that section of his file. The shattered glass of an office door; broken chairs; assorted office supplies strewn across the floor, books thrown from shelves. The bruises around Dr. Devereaux's throat, Dr. Hawkins' dislocated shoulder, the various black eyes and contusions. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone; Crowley and Meg had tricked him, made the doctors' eyes go pitch black and their tongues split into snaky points, and he'd lashed out in terror. He feels a tear trickle out the corner of one closed eye as he stands there, afraid to meet this new doctor's gaze. Afraid to see his judgment.

"Thank you, Garth, that will be all." Dr. Novak sounds calm. Sam tries to breathe more deeply, but his chest is tight with tension and fear. "There's a chair in the hallway, if you'll be waiting."

"Yes sir, thank you," Garth replies, and Sam hears Garth's steps exiting and the door closing.

"Sam? Would you like to sit down?"

Sam grits his teeth and forces his eyes open. Dr. Novak is regarding him with wide, blue eyes. He indicates a love seat over by the window, with a small table and a plushy armchair next to it. 

"Come, I think you'll find this more comfortable than those wooden chairs," Dr Novak says, and he sits in the plushy armchair while waving to the love seat. "Please."

Sam sinks down on the edge of the love seat. It's very comfortable, and the fabric is soft and velvety. His fingers pet at it before he snatches them back into his lap, one hand clutching the other.

"How are you today, Sam?"

Sam just stares at him. Dr. Novak has high cheekbones and a wide mouth with soft-looking lips and faint dark stubble covering his chin. His hair is black and thick and untidy. He wears the white doctor coat that they all do, but underneath it is just a black T-shirt and jeans--no suit, no tie. The T-shirt has a half-loaded progress bar on it and says, "Caffeine loading . . . please wait." His feet are in sneakers--black Converse--not wingtips. Sam likes it.

Dr. Novak waits several moments. Sam presumes it's to give him time to speak. He doesn't.

Finally the doctor breaks the silence. "Sam, as you probably already know, I am taking over your care. Dr. Devereaux has relocated to another facility. I hope we'll be able to work together to bring you to a happier place."

Sam thinks, _Another hospital?_ He shakes his head.

"No? You don't think we can make your life happier? Can you tell me why you think that?"

Sam sits mutely, unmoving.

"Well, I can see you are a man of few words." Dr. Novak smiles kindly at him. "I read that you don't like to talk much. I'd like to explore that, see if we can perhaps unlock your words and let you finally be able to express yourself. I see test results here that say you're a very intelligent young man, and your studies qualify you for a GED. I think your progress would be greatly aided by your own input. How does that sound?"

He waits, so patiently that Sam is surprised, despite himself. Finally, Sam half-shrugs.

"There! That's great, Sam. We'll take it slow. I look forward to getting to know you. We'll meet every day, and we might try a group session twice as week as well, okay?"

Sam sticks out his tongue. He doesn't like group. If it isn't chaotic enough by itself, sometimes Gabriel or Meg starts playing tricks and Sam ends up in a straitjacket or ice wrap.

Dr. Novak chuckles. "I take it group is not a favorite of yours? We'll see how it goes, Sam. No pressure." As he stands up, he leans over and pats Sam on the knee.

The darkness is immediate and complete as Alastair rips the light from Sam's eyes. Sam dimly hears screaming through the demons' taunts in his ears, and it's several seconds before he realizes it's his own voice. Then he slides into unconsciousness as firm hands grip his arms tightly and a needle enters his veins.

Cas closes the door behind the attendants as they wheel Sam out of his office. It had taken two good-sized men to subdue the young man, who was surprisingly strong despite his lanky, wiry build. He rubs the cheekbone that Sam's fist had connected with, knowing he'll have a stellar bruise there tomorrow.

 _Rookie mistake there, Novak._ he thinks ruefully. _No touching until you know their triggers. You know better than that._

He goes into the tiny bathroom attached to his office and runs cold water onto a towel, pressing the makeshift cold pack to his face. He doesn't want to go ask a nurse for assistance--he feels foolish enough as it is, without further exposing his misstep to the staff. Holding it in place as he walks back to his desk, he opens Sam's folder again. He'd paged through the papers within, but there actually wasn't a lot of information there, considering the length of Sam's hospitalization, and nothing that would have indicated a problem with casual contact like that. _What the hell, Devereaux? Thanks for the head's up. Hope there aren't other omissions like that._

Samuel Francis Campbell, age 21  
Admitted to Glenwood Springs at age 18 (aged out of Rosemont Pediatric Psychiatric Facility)  
Other stays at various hospitals all over the country since age 8 (list with dates attached)

Current primary diagnosis: Schizophrenia, early onset  
Secondary diagnosis: Severe clinical depression; elective mutism

IQ: 145

_Shit, this boy is smart! We've got to be able to reach him somehow. Can't leave him in this limbo if he can be reached at all._ Cas shook his head in frustration at the waste of a young man's potential.

Father: Jacob Frederick Campbell, deceased July 18,1995. Older brother of two, brother also deceased.  
Mother: Mary Linda Campbell (nee Ryan), deceased July 18, 1995. Only child.  
Raised by grandfather, Samuel Campbell, along with cousins Gwen Campbell, Christian Campbell (third cousin,Colin Campbell, also deceased).

_Jesus, lot of death in this family. What are they, cursed?_

Cas skims down to note the last visitor's date.

It was Sam's cousin Gwen, her last visit over a year ago. The grandfather hadn't been to see Sam since the boy was admitted four years ago. 

He sighs. The kid has essentially been abandoned, something that happens too often in these long-term cases. _But hell--the boy doesn't have enough stacked against him? He's all alone too?_

Cas drops the papers and sighs again, rubbing his eyes. His cheek throbs and he throws the towel back into the bathroom from his chair. He hears the heavy, wet plop as it lands on the floor. 

Sam suffers from delusions and hallucinations, both visual and auditory. He seems to have built imaginary characters that determine his behavior. Large guilt complex. Selective mutism with no physical basis. Extremely isolated. Unable or unwilling to communicate or express emotions and thoughts.

Basically in good physical health. All vaccinations up to date. No major or chronic health issues. Prone to self-harm.

A list of physical injuries and childhood illnesses follows, including several cuts of varying severity, half a dozen concussions, and three or four broken bones.

_What the fuck has happened to this kid? Locked inside himself all these years, beating the crap out of himself . . . can anything be done to get him back out?_

Family history: Sam's parents died when he was two, and he was raised by his grandfather in a very militaristic, no-nonsense manner. They moved extensively around the country, making regular schooling and the establishment of any roots very difficult. Sam was moderately close to his cousins, especially Gwen Campbell, who were raised more as his siblings. Gwen came to visit Sam at Glenwood from time to time, but finally stopped, as she was unable to cope with Sam's lack of improvement and unchanging state. There is no one else in his family involved with him at this time.

_There is no one else._

"There is now," Cas says out loud. "There's me."

Pain. A deep ache throughout his whole body, highlighted with sharp lines of pain at his wrists and ankles. His head is one big throbbing thundercloud of pain, little jagged flares of lightning arcing randomly through it.

Sam opens his mouth and becomes aware of how absolutely dry it is. It feels like it has been packed with cotton batting, the fibers of which have sucked every bit of moisture from his tissues. His tongue is swollen and heavy as he tries to manipulate it; it blunders aimlessly into his teeth.

Experience tells him that the pain at his wrists and ankles means he is strapped down, and he knows that if he could actually call out for an attendant, they would come see if he was ready to be released. He tries to speak, but his throat convulses soundlessly and his lips just open and close without shaping any words, as usual.

He sighs with just a faint huff of air, resigned to waiting until someone checks on him. He closes his eyes and drifts a little, remaining conscious of his body, but letting his mind float away to the tiny bits of memories that he hoards for times like this. Images of warm hugs, sunny skies, soft voices reading stories to him. Dry paper pages containing worlds that transport him far away from the echoing hospital rooms. The puppy he got to cuddle once, its fur soft and tickly against his cheek. Gwen's beautiful face, smiling at him. Tears begin to slowly leak from the corner of his eyes as he cherishes his little moments of happiness, most of them from a time he couldn't fully recall anymore. Would he ever see Gwen again? Would he be able to pet a puppy, play with a dog? Were the best places to live always going to be inside books?

Kevin starts asking him these questions and more. _Do you think you will ever kiss someone, Sam? Feel the warm pressure of their lips against yours? Hug someone? Make love? Feel their body, hot and firm, moving against yours, becoming one? Do you want that, Sam? Does your cock ache for it?_

Even in his bonds, Sam's body grows warm and restless. He tries to shift his hips; his scrub pants are pulled against his crotch, and they feel tighter as his dick fattens to half mast. He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and thinking of bad things now, gross things, painful things--god knows he's got plenty of those memories to work with--to make his boner go away. Most of the attendants are pretty decent, but there are a few who think nothing of running their hands over an immobilized patient. Popping an erection in a vulnerable state like this is asking to be fondled, squeezed, or molested; in a couple of rarer instances, even jerked off. Sam has no problem with beating off, but he'd rather do it himself in his own room, not while he has to lie helpless and watch Benny the lecherous attendant pant while he's pumping Sam's dick with one hand and his own with the other.

"Hey . . . hey, there. Sam, is it? Sam Campbell?"

A husky voice speaks to him, off to one side. Sam stops to check, _Which world?_ No, not one of his oppressors. A new voice, a little rough but in a good way, like the velvet on Dr. Novak's love seat. He takes a chance and nods cautiously.

"Great. Hey, man. I'm Dean. I'm a new ward attendant here. Garth told me to come check on you and see if you're ready to be released. What do you say, huh? It's almost dinner time, and I hear there's an awesome meatloaf on deck tonight." As he speaks, his hands deftly but gently undo the wrist and ankle bands before moving to Sam's waist for the big belly band. The hands pause for a moment.

"You, uh, having a good little daydream there, Sam?" There's humor in the voice, and Sam finds that, instead of being embarrassed, his lips twitch in a smile.

"Hey, no sweat, dude. Happens to all of us, right? And you, geez, at your age, you can get a boner just thinking about the damn meatloaf, right? Well, maybe not _this_ meatloaf, but it don't take much, do it? So don't worry about it, okay?" The hands are done unbuckling, and Sam hears the strap ends flop free and Dean take a step back.

"Okay, go ahead and sit up--let me know if you need a hand. You might be pretty stiff." Dean snickers. "Well, stiff all over, ya know."

Sam can't help smiling a little at Dean's crude joke. People usually talk at Sam, or around him. Not so much _to_ him, and forget about joking with him. He realizes Dean must already be aware of his sensitivity to being handled, and is giving him space. He rolls onto one side and pushes up, his legs swinging to the floor, his limbs cramped and uncooperative from the restraint and inactivity. He grunts softly as he achieves being upright, feeling all of his muscles protesting for a moment. Dean is hovering, he can tell, but doesn't touch him. Sam suddenly wonders what his hands would feel like.

He opens his eyes and looks at Dean.

_Isn't he a pretty one,_ whispers Balthazar. _No wonder you don't want to fuck the girls here. You like a nice piece of beefcake, don't you? He is quite toothsome! Wonder what caliber he's packing?_ Balthazar winks and grabs his crotch, gyrating his hips at Sam.

Sam brushes at his ear--Balthazar always whispers right in his ear, hot breath and hissing sibilants. He can't help admitting, though, that The Rogue has a valid point. This Dean guy is damn nice-looking; broad shoulders, flat stomach, narrow hips, all encased in the navy blue scrubs of the ward attendants. His biceps are meaty curves that taper to sinewy forearms dusted with golden hair and caramel freckles.

When Sam finally looks all the way up to Dean's face, he can't help catching his breath. The man is fucking gorgeous. Spiky light brown hair; more freckles spread across sculpted cheekbones; a smiling mouth with full lips and white teeth. It's the eyes that do Sam in, though; deep green, framed by thick lashes, with crinkles in the corners when Dean smiles at him. Jesus fuck. Sam's dick threatens to swell up again, and Sam pinches himself hard for distraction.

"Okay, so you hungry?" Dean asks. He still doesn't try to touch Sam at all, just watches him closely.

Sam nods. He's not wild about the meatloaf, but he's fucking starving after spending the better part of a day trussed up. He stands and follows Dean to the cafeteria. Dean even walks slowly so Sam can keep up while he get his legs moving and his circulation is restored.

After that first encounter, Sam sees Dean a lot around the ward. Dean frequently brings his morning meds, escorts him to Dr. Novak, checks on him in the activity room. Sam hasn't tried speaking to him--he hardly attempts speaking to anyone, really, since he rarely succeeds--but he likes feeling Dean's presence nearby. From what he can see, Dean is competent, patient, and doesn't feel that cleaning up piss and vomit is a punishment. He often makes snarky little remarks to Sam, and busts out in a grin if he can make Sam smile a little.

After one such smile is coaxed from Sam, Dean stops what he's doing to comment, "You have a great smile, Sammy. Can I call you that?" Dean waits a few minutes, then takes Sam's quiet as approval. "It just kind of halfway warms up, then it spreads right across your face. You're a good-looking kid there, Sammy, bet you didn't even know that. Downright handsome."

Sam ducked his head and shook it, his dark, shaggy hair brushing across his eyes. He felt his mouth turn down as he crossed his arms.

"What is it? No Sammy after all?" Quiet. "Not good-looking?" More quiet. "Not a kid?"

Vehement head shake.

Dean sat down next to him. "Okay, Sammy. Not a kid. I apologize. How old are you?"

Sam sat very still. He could feel Dean's warmth, could smell his after-shave and the detergent of his scrubs. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Spicy and clean, wrapped up in the warmth of Dean. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Dean. There were darker lines inside the green of his eyes, and his lashes were a mixture of dark brown and dark blond. Sam wondered what his skin would feel like. He bet it would be warm and soft.

" . . . twenty-one." A whisper, all he could do. More than most got. Dr. Novak would shit himself to hear that.

Dean looked shocked for a second. Sam thought smugly he'd surprised the other man.

"Wow, that's--that's great, Sammy. Twenty-one. I'm twenty-five, and I'm an Aquarius who likes moonlit walks on the beach and frisky playmates. Nice to meet you." He stuck out his hand.

Sam looked at it, that gold-dusted hand with its elegant fingers and callused palm. He wanted to touch it, feel those fingers curl around his, feel their heat, their strength. Maybe nothing would happen since he _wanted_ it so much; maybe it was only when he didn't get to choose or accept it that he freaked out. He saw Dean's eyes go wide as he picked up his hand and slid it into Dean's.

The screams tore at his ears, and he wondered blankly why they didn't stop. He didn't connect them with the tearing, raspy feeling in his throat. The thrill of Dean's palm against his was lost as Dean and Garth threw themselves over him, trapping his limbs and keeping him from hurting himself or anyone else. He hears Dean's deep voice yelling for a shot, then feels the prick of the needle in his arm.

"So sorry, Sammy, didn't mean to--sorry, sorry . . ." Dean's voice is husky in his ear, his words fading to Crowley's harsh voice as he begins scolding Sam, Meg's laughter reaching a shrill crescendo, and the rattle of Alastair's chains before darkness takes him.

Sam wakes up in his own room this time, so he must have been out all night. He is bound to the bed, and his bladder lets him know it needs to be emptied _tout de suite_. He prays that someone will check on him before he pisses himself and his bed. It wouldn't be the first time, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant.

A key in the door makes his eyes pop open. Hands unfasten his bindings, and he can't hold back a small whimper.

"Gotta pee?" It's Dean, and Sam feels a small bubble of joy. Dean's good, he'll take care of him.

Sam nods, and Dean whips out a urine bottle. "You need this, or can you make it to the bathroom?"

Sam grabs the bottle and shoves his scrubs down. He's got no time to waste. He pulls out his stiff cock and lines it up with the bottle. Closing his eyes, he wills his morning wood to go down enough so that he can actually pee. He thinks about the nightmare night he just had, and relief floods him as urine streams from his dick. He pees and pees, shaking his dick at the end before sticking it back inside his thin jersey hospital boxers with the stretched-out elastic waist.

"Jesus, you needed that bad!" Dean chuckled. He takes the bottle into the bathroom and empties it into the toilet. Coming back to Sam, he lays out clean tan scrubs and a fresh pair each of boxers and socks. His eyes flick down Sam and back up to his eyes. "Not gonna lie, dude, you're packing some serious heat there. Damn." He indicates for Sam to move to the chair so that Dean can strip the bed and put on fresh sheets.

Sam strips off his clothing and puts on the fresh ones, shooting little glances at Dean as the attendant moves around his bed. Does Dean think he has a big dick? Sam's only comparisons are the couple of attendants who like to expose themselves to him and fondle him when he's restrained. Benny's dick is definitely smaller than Sam's, and Gordon's dick is fat and dark, but not as long as Sam's. He's seen Kubrick's dick, when his recurring religious frenzy makes him strip off his scrubs and run naked around the ward, but his dick is soft and white and floppy then.

When Dean is done, he sits on the bed, facing Sam. "Listen, do you, uh . . . you want some extra washcloths or tissues? You know, for . . ." and he gestures suggestively with his hand. Sam feels a blush starting in his cheeks. Does Dean know what Sam does at night, under his sheets? Does _everybody_ know? Maybe this is some crafty ploy by Crowley to expose him as a sex freak, if he admits to wanting the supplies. It's just the kind of trick he'd pull--make Sam ask, then hang him out to dry. Sam can't help it sometimes--he needs to do it, needs to tug at himself until he shoots into the toilet or his hand. He tries to resist, but his body gets so hot, his cock so hard and insistent, and then Balthazar starts whispering shit in his ear. Dirty words, dirty thoughts, and all about men--their muscles, their penises, the hard lines of their bodies. Descriptions of them touching Sam's body, Sam touching theirs, until the spunk is helplessly jetting out of him. He knows this means he's some kind of pervert, but he was hoping no one else knew.

He finally manages a half-shrug, which Dean takes as a refusal.

"Change your mind, just let me know. Your age, you're probably choking the chicken every night, and you need supplies for that. You want lotion too, I can get it, okay? Don't want any chafing on my shift." He clicks his tongue at Sam, who finally glances directly at him. Dean grins at him, giving him a thumbs up as he collects the dirty linens and the urine bottle. "Jo will be right in with your meds, and then you can go to breakfast. French toast today!" He winks at Sam and leaves the room.

_What do you think you're doing?_ asks Kevin. _Don't you know where this will lead? Why are you tempting such punishment? Have you learned nothing?_

_Leave the boy alone! He wants some hot man-meat! Let him get lucky! I was fucking every day at his age, two-three times too!_ Balthazar smirks.

_Place your bets: is Sammy a top or a bottom? Is he going to fuck that fine, fine man, or is he going to take it all the way up the ass?_ Gabriel chortles. _I bet twenty to three that he's a bottom, a nice, juicy catcher! Place your bets!_

Sam moans and drops his head into his hands. _No, please . . ._

Meg slithers up next to him, her forked tongue tickling his ear. _So, all these years and you turn out to be a fucking pansy. I thought I was gonna take your sweet little cherry, when the time came. Maybe while you were splayed out on Alastair's rack; jump on your hard little prick, ride you while he broke your bones. Spoiled my plan, you cunty little worm. Well, don't think you'll get to have the pretty man. Not yet. Maybe not ever._ She licks his neck, leaving a cold trail of slime on it, and he shudders. She grabs his crotch and squeezes it hard, laughing as he cries out and tries to fight her off.

Balthazar licks the other side of his neck, all the way up into the shell of his ear. _You are such a sweet boy,_ he croons. _Maybe I need a turn first, play with that horse cock you're hiding in those scrubs._ He pushes his hand inside Sam's scrubs, palms his cock. _Ohh my, this is delicious. So big and firm._ He jacks Sam hard a couple of times, squeezes his balls painfully. _Mmmmm, just a preview, my dear. More to come!_ He pinches Sam's nipple before he vanishes.

Gabriel leers at him. _This is a bet I can't lose, sweetcheeks! And if I do, well . . . I'll still win! Good luck fending them all off, my delectable little cupcake!_

Sam feels the tears running down his face. His body still reverberates from the heavy-handed pawing. His erection aches from the harsh jerks and the frustration, and his balls are sore from being squeezed, as well as feeling so full now. As much as he doesn't want anything to do with the licentious members of the pantheon, his body can't help physically reacting to their groping. He desperately wants to jerk off and relieve the pressure, but he doesn't want even his own masturbation to be connected with their mockery of sex.

There's a knock at the door, and Dean enters. He's carrying a tray of food, which he hastily puts on the bed as he rushes over to Sam.

"Sam! Sam! What's wrong? What happened?" Dean crouches in front of Sam, looking intently into his face.

Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know how to convey the complicated issues that surrounded him. Besides, he's also devoutly hoping that Dean will not notice his erection. Again.

Dean sighs, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "Okay, I really want to know what happened, but if you can't tell me, you can't tell me." He turned back to the bed and picked up the tray. "Caf was closing, so I grabbed some breakfast for you. Juice, milk, coffee, some french toast, bacon, and a banana. I don't know what you like, so I hope I did okay."

Sam looks at the tray and feels his stomach rumbling. He looks up at Dean and gives him a little smile and a thumbs up.

Dean beams. "Awesome! That's great! Okay, you dig in and then it'll be time to go see Dr. Novak, all right?" He reaches an arm out as if to clap Sam on the shoulder, but quickly withdraws it.

Sam feels sad that Dean has to be so guarded around him. He ducks his head and sighs, but then looks up and tries to smile again.

Dean smiles back.

Cas looks at his schedule and sees that Sam Campbell is next. He sighs. He's been unable to make any progress so far with the young man. Oh, their time together is actually spent pleasantly enough--Sam is clearly very intelligent, and personable in a very quiet way, very timid. It was just that Sam is still essentially mute, still cannot tolerate a touch, still locked into whatever hell his mind has concocted for him. Cas wants to find that key and free the boy from his private prison.

Cas gets up and begins to pace around the room. There has to be some way to reach him, some avenue, some tendril of connection that can find a chink in his construct. 

He returns to his desk and pulls out the meds list. Maybe a new medication, or a combination as yet untried . . .

His musing stops when there is a knock at the door. He opens it and finds Dean Winchester and Sam Campbell in the hallway. For a moment, he is struck by how close Sam is standing to Dean--Sam usually has quite the personal space bubble.

"Hi, Sam. Hello, Dean. Thank you for escorting Sam. Please, make yourself comfortable on the chair here." Cas indicates the armchair he'd replaced the the wooden chair in the hallway with.

"Thanks, Dr. Novak." Dean replies as Sam went into the office. Dean moves closer to Cas and touches his arm, dropping his voice. "Dr. Novak, could I have a word with you?"

"Of course, Dean. What is it?" Cas pulls the door almost shut behind him, stepping into the hallway with Dean.

"Doctor, I've been working quite a bit with Sam recently, you know, on the ward? Is it okay for me to tell you my observations?"

Cas nods. "Of course. You're seeing him in his living environment, so you're going to see things that I might not. What did you want to tell me?"

Dean looks at the floor, then down the hall before looking back at Cas. "He's trying to communicate with me. He smiles, he responds to me. He tried to talk at one point--I think he just couldn't get the words out." He clears his throat and cuts his eyes away. "It's possible that he's attracted to me."

Cas is stunned. Tried to talk? Communicate? "Dean, this is . . . huge. I have to state that I can't really talk to you about the specifics of Sam's case, but that is indeed a significant step. As far as his attraction, I must ask you--is this a problem? Sam's well-being is my first concern, and I must protect him."

Dean nods. "I understand about the privacy thing. I just wanted to bring what I saw to you, I don't expect you to talk about it with me. I just--he's a good guy, and if he can get better, then that's what I want. And the attraction? As one of his caregivers, I would never take advantage of him, Doc. He might be twenty-one, but he can't really consent. That's just a mountain of no."

Cas looks at Dean, studying the man. "Are you . . . attracted back, Dean?"

Dean looks down the hallway again before turning back to Cas. Cas can see his eyes soften and a half-smile play on his lips. "Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am. He may be quiet, but I think there's a lot going on inside there. Still waters, you know? And he's sure easy on the eyes to boot. But I give you my word, Dr. Novak--nothing's going to happen."

Cas doesn't doubt the sincerity of Dean's declaration. The man is as straightforward as anyone he's ever met. He has every right to have Dean transferred out of Sam's ward, but he believes the man standing in front of him. This is also the man who's created a rapport with a difficult, sensitive patient--fragile though it might be--and Cas doesn't want to lose that.

"Okay, Dean. I'm going to take you at your word. Please don't hesitate to let me know anything that you observe about Sam. Now excuse me, I must go talk with him." Cas shakes Dean's hand and withdraws back into the office as Dean sits down in the chair.

"Hi, Sam. How are you doing today?" Cas walks across his office and sits down facing the love seat Sam is curled up on, his usual perch.

Sam shrugs. 

Cas fights to contain a sigh. _Shit, Sam, what can I do to reach you?_

"I hear you and Dean are becoming friends. Can you tell me a little about that?"

Sam scratches at his knee, then plays with the velvet pillow on the love seat.

"We're going to have group this afternoon, Sam. Is there anything you'd like to share there?"

The hour drags on, Cas striving to draw out some response from Sam, Sam preoccupied elsewhere. When Sam leaves with Dean, Cas collapses into his leather desk chair.

"This is ridiculous. I'm not giving up on that young man. I'm _not!_ "

_Group! Shall we think up some lovely jokes to play on them, Sam?_ Gabriel winks and strews a handful of candies and condoms on the floor, like feed corn before the flock.

Balthazar pushed Gabriel away. _No! Let's all take our pricks out and compare them! Maybe we can have a rousing circle jerk! I wanna see if Kubrick can even get a fucking stiffy, or if his Jesus has sucked the juice right out of him!!_

Sam shakes his head vigorously.

_I know,_ says Meg, her mouth curling nastily. _What if we play, Dick, Dick, Goose! We'll already be sitting in a circle. Only the Goose has to pull his dick out and jerk it as he runs around the circle!_ She throws her head back in a cascade of giggles. _Maybe he'll jizz all over everyone!_

Sam grunts angrily and shook his head again. God, they never shut up! He just wanted them to shut up with the nasty and the ugly. That wasn't how he wanted to think about sex. And he didn't want them to wake up Alastair.

_Why are you so interested in sex all of a sudden?_ asked Kevin, his eyes flicking between Sam's face and his crotch. _Lots of sexy thoughts going on here, Sammy boy. What's up with that? What are you thinking?_

Sam covers his face with his arms and whimpers. Suddenly someone is next to him, but not touching him.

"Sam? You okay there? What's going on, buddy?" Dean's voice, rich and reassuring. Sam felt like it was flowing over him, cloaking him, protecting him from the crass, evil voices of his harassers. He blindly put out a hand, and when it fell on cotton scrub, he instinctively clenched the material. His fingers swept across a taut belly, muscular ripples under the scratchy cotton. Heat blossomed at his fingertips and raced up his hand. He heard Dean gasp in alarm.

_Nonononono,_ Sam thinks incoherently, and waits for the screaming, the darkness, the needle.

He waits.

And waits.

He turns his head slowly, afraid to move too fast, to jar the precarious peace loose and make his brain splinter. There is Dean, staring down at him with huge green eyes, surprise on his face. Garth hovers behind Dean, his face too a mask of shock. 

"Sam?" Dean whispers. "What's going on?"

Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know. Doesn't know why he was able to touch Dean and not detonate.

And his head . . . is quiet.

_You see, dear boy, there can be quiet. There can be peace. You can find it, I know you can._ Chuck's large eyes regard Sam serenely. _Forgiveness, Sam, it's all about forgiveness. I forgive you. Dean forgives you. Dr. Novak forgives you. Shhhh . . . shhhh . . ._

Sam breathes deeply, slowly. He reaches out, fingers open, and watches as his fingertips so, so gently brush Dean's cheek. Dean's breath hitches sharply as Sam brings his fingers back, studies them. He felt it; the softness of Dean's skin, the warmth, the faintest rasp of stubble. And the world doesn't implode.


	2. Chapter 2

_"What?"_ Cas is astounded as Dean relates how Sam had touched him yesterday without experiencing his usual violent reaction. "Oh my God. Oh my God." He turns and walks to the window, one hand resting on his hip and the other on his mouth, pressing firmly against his lips.

 _What? How? Will it happen again? Can we keep it like this? Is Dean our way to finally really reach Sam?_ So many thoughts jumble inside the psychologist's head, he's almost dizzy.

"I couldn't believe it when he did it," Dean says softly. "I haven't been here all that long, but I've seen . . . what happens. With contact. And here, he just . . . barely brushed me, but he was okay. I don't know what it means, but I figured I should tell you, Dr. Novak."

"Yes, yes, that was absolutely the right thing to do. I don't know what it means myself--I've been unable to ascertain what his touch aversion is all about."

"Aversion? Dr. Novak, not liking onions on your burger is an aversion. He's fifty laps past that. If I hadn't seen it, I'd never think he could be so strong and so lost at the same time." Dean runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath.

Cas can't help chuckling briefly at Dean's analogy. "Well put, Mr. Winchester. I just--God! I just don't know what's at the root of it. Or his mutism. We know he can talk. There's no physiological impediment to his speech. He just--doesn't. Won't or . . . can't."

Dean clears his throat. "Well, I oughta get back on the ward, Dr. Novak. I'll be bringing him to group after lunch."

"Yes, of course. Thank you again, Dean. I think this is a really important moment for Sam. I'll see you both after lunch."

Dean exits the office, shutting the door quietly behind him. Cas turns back to the window and stares out of it, tapping the fingers of one hand against his mouth. _What does it mean?_

He sighs and walks back to his desk. Sitting down, he pulls out Sam's file again.

Unable or unwilling to communicate or express emotions and thoughts.

_Why? Why, why, why? People don't just stop talking without a reason. Is it just a physiological aspect of his mental illness? Is it something else, something beyond that? And the touching too--illness? Or a learned response to something in his past?_

Sam's parents died when he was two.

"Died how?" Cas muses aloud. He reads the sentence over and over. There are no other papers that deal with this part of Sam's history in his folder. Why isn't there more background on this? What did the parents die of? Was there trauma involved? Was _Sam_ involved? Cas leans back in his chair and gazes unseeing at the ceiling. 

_What happened to Sam when he was little?_

Cas sits up and picks up the phone. "Please contact Sam Campbell's family. He has a grandfather and a cousin, and I need to speak with them. As soon as possible."

By the time group starts mid-afternoon, Cas has heard back from the Campbells. Samuel is unwilling to travel to the asylum, but concedes to a Skype video call with Gwen also attending. Cas figures that is as good as he is going to get. It's arranged for tomorrow morning.

He walks into the group session room to find the patients already seated. Sam, Kubrick, Marvin, Brady, Andy, all sitting in the chairs arranged in a semi-circle. Dean and Gordon stand off to the side, in case of any disturbances.

Cas greets everyone as he sits down. "Hi, guys, How is everyone doing today?" An assortment of nods and grunts follow.

Marvin sits forward, his lined face radiating concern. "Dr. Novak, I really need to talk to you about the weird things happening after lights out. It's very alarming!" His voice drops. "I don't think we're safe!" His hand shakes in a fine tremor as he speaks urgently.

"Yes, Marvin, we will." Cas answers calmly. "Right now, though, let's talk about how we all are doing and what's going on with each other, okay? Brady? How are you today? Can you start us off?"

Brady looks around the circle lazily. "Oh, Dr. Novak, there's really nothing I care to share with this group of losers. I expect my family to fetch me by this weekend, at the latest. This sort of place is really beneath me. I attended one of the best prep schools in the country, you know, and then I studied at an Ivy League school. I'm simply on sabbatical here." He examined his nails with a bored air.

Cas looks down at his notes. Brady's family hasn't visited in over six months, and Cas knows they haven't called to release Brady either. More of the young man's delusions. He sighs.

"Okay, Brady. Who has had something good happen this week? Maybe . . . something unusual?" His eyes flick to each of the men; he doesn't want to zero in on Sam.

Sam's head jerks up, and he shoots a wary look at Cas. Hoho, a hit, a very palpable hit. But before he can speak again, Kubrick bursts out.

"Dr. Novak, I was visited by an angel! A celestial being of such beauty, it hurt my eyes! She took off her angelic robes and stood naked before me, telling to to likewise disrobe and join with her. We're going to start a new lineage of human-angel crossbreeds that will fortify the world against the forces of evil! Against the very Devil himself!" Kubrick stands up and shoves his scrubs and boxers down, ecstatically exposing his half-hard penis to the room.

A general grumble meets his action as most of the men protest.

"Put that away!"

"Jesus, Kubrick, I don't wanna see that!"

"Asshole!"

"Dipshit!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas sees Dean discreetly cover his snicker, but then the attendant puts on his blank professional face and moves forward. Gordon beats him to the punch, jumping to Kubrick's side to grab his clothing and yank it back up. Kubrick howls as he's dressed, and Cas can see that Gordon is being pretty rough with the man, his hands all over the patient as he adjusts Kubrick's clothing back in place.

"Gordon! Thank you for helping Kubrick, but please, be gentle. He's not going to hurt anyone."

"Unless he gets spunk on us!" Andy titters and hides his face behind his hands.

"Let Kubrick go for a minute, please. Now, Kubrick, do you want to stay here for group? Because you must keep all your clothing on, if you do. Do you understand?"

Kubrick nods sulkily and sits back down. Cas nods at Gordon, who backs away.

As Gordon moves, Cas is shocked to note a discernible tenting of Gordon's scrubs. He can't believe his eyes, struggling to maintain an placid face as he strives to hide his shock. His eyes flick to Dean's impassive face. Dean gives a tiny nod as his eyes move to Gordon and then back to Cas. He knows. He saw it too.

_Oh, dear lord. He's erect from manhandling a patient. What can of worms does this imply?_

"Okay," Cas says hoarsely, trying to get his throat to work properly so he can get the session back on track. "I think that's enough excitement for now. Let's move on to you, Sam." His eyes focus on Sam's dark head, bowed as Sam contemplates the worn linoleum.

Sam slowly looks up. Raised eyebrows ask _What?_

"Has anything unusual or interesting happened to you in the last couple of days, Sam?"

Sam stares at him before shooting his eyes to Dean, accompanied by a faint frown.

"Now, now, Sam, I showed you mine, you show me yours!" Kubrick giggles. His hand toys with the waist tie of his scrubs, but he manages to keep from untying it again.

Sam shakes his head a little. _No._

"No as in nothing has happened, or no as in you don't want to talk about it?" Cas probes gently.

Sam flashes two fingers.

Cas feels very encouraged. He's just had his longest direct conversation yet with this complicated patient.

"Okay, Sam, that's fine. Maybe we can talk more about it tomorrow morning, in your private session, okay?" Cas smiles at Sam. He sees the young man's frame sag a little in relief.

"Who's next? How about you, Andy?"

Checking his schedule the next morning, Cas is pleased to see that the Skype call is prior to his one-on-one session with Sam. He fetches a fresh cup of coffee, makes sure he has a pad and pen on his desk ready for notes, and Sam's file open on one side. He pulls Skype up and waits for the Campbells to make contact.

The computer trills and words scroll into the Skype window.

_Dr. Novak? It's Gwen Campbell. I'm here with my grandfather, Samuel Campbell._

Cas types, _Hello, Gwen. Can we do video chat? It would be easier and quicker._

He sees the video window go live. There's a lovely young woman next to an older, bald man, both of them looking at him.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Novak." Cas gives a little wave. He appreciates the benefit of Skyping, but always feels a little awkward.

The woman smiles--damn, she's pretty--and introduces herself as Gwen. She has delicate features and dark, curly hair. He can see some resemblance to Sam. The man is bald and pugnacious, his strong jaw thrust forward and his brows heavy and beetling. Samuel Campbell looks fierce, a far cry from the usual image of a elderly, doting grandfather. This grandfather is an aged warrior.

"Novak, what are you asking about my grandson? Boy's a nutcase. Always has been, and I guess always will be." Samuel sounds impatient, his words terse and his tone almost angry.

"Mr. Campbell, I have a few questions about Sam's history. I've just taken over his case, and I find his file to be rather sketchy in some areas. I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me today. I want to help Sam, and I need your help to do that."

Samuel grunts. "Don't know what I can help with. Haven't all the other doctors gone through this already?"

Cas bites his tongue as he smiles at Samuel. _He's your grandson! Don't you give a rat's ass about him?_

"Every doctor has their own methods, and mine include going over everything in the history of the patient and reviewing it from scratch. Even the littlest thing that might have been missed can make a difference. Now, I see that Sam's parents died when he was little, is that correct?"

Gwen's dark brown eyes go wide as she stares at the screen, frozen. Cas makes a tiny note about her reaction for later. Samuel looks like he was about to spit nails.

"Yes, they did. He was two."

"Sir, what was the cause of death?"

Now Gwen's hand flies up to cover her mouth. Samuel barks at her, "Sit tight or get out!" She swallows and stiffens in her chair, her other hand back down on the table.

"It was never solved. All they knew is what they saw: both bodies sliced open across the belly, blood everywhere. Jacob had some bruises on his face like he took a few blows. Mary . . . . " Samuel stops to swallow hard. Cas watches the man deal with re-envisioning his daughter's death, and feels pity.

"Mary had some broken ribs, a broken hip, a broken knee, and a fractured skull." Samuel grimaces again. " Her nose was pushed into her brain."

Cas is shocked. This tableau of Sam's parents' deaths is far more terrible than he'd expected. "Like she was beaten?"

Samuel shakes his head. The pugnacious attitude recedes, and Cas sees the man who's lived with this pain for fifteen years. "No, like she--like she'd fallen. Like she'd fallen from a great height. But she was just in the room. The police couldn't understand it." He runs a hand over his eyes, and Gwen puts an arm around his shoulders and hugs him. Tears trickle down her face.

"That . . . that's horrible. I had no idea. I'm so sorry." Cas struggles to put his own shock aside and keep probing. "What room were they in, exactly? And where was Sam during this?"

Gwen answers this time. "It was all in the police report."

"I don't have a copy of that in Sam's file at all." Cas is instantly angry that he's missing crucial information like this. Was this more of Dr. Devereaux' incompetence? A file that simply fell through the cracks? His anger mounts at whoever is responsible for the absence of this vital document.

Samuel answers gruffly, "It was Sam's room. The nursery."

Cas's blood runs cold. _No, no, no, please no._

"Sam was right there. They found him lying next to his mother's body, his head on her arm, still wearing his Superman pajamas that were soaked in her blood. Jacob was a foot away. They had to hold Sam down to cut the bloody pajamas off, with him screaming the whole time." Samuel clears his throat raspily.

Cas wants to throw up. Instead, he takes a gulp of his now-flavorless coffee, hoping it settles his roiling stomach. It doesn't.

"Was he able to say anything about what happened at all? Give any clues to the attacker?"

Samuel sighs heavily. "No. He never spoke again after that. He's always been teachable--information is always able to go in. Just . . . nothing verbal comes out."

Gwen interjects, "That makes sense, right? After a trauma like that, with his illness?" Cas notes the slightly shrill, desperate note in her voice. A plea for validation? Or something more? _Very curious._ He jots a few words down to remind him to look into that later.

"Yes, it does make sense," Cas hastens to reply. "At the same time, it's not unrealistic to think that after seventeen years, we would have made some progress on the mutism. Or on any of his symptoms. He's a very difficult case, and yet--I feel that he's in there still, trapped inside his illness, and I'm searching for a way to get through to him. Hence this call."

Samuel rubs his bald pate. "I just don't know what this can tell you. We don't know what happened, who attacked them, how much Sam witnessed. It's not enough, but there's no more to be known." He shakes his head wearily.

Cas sees the man's grief finally surface. He lost his only child, and his grandson was terribly damaged. Cas can barely imagine how much pain this man has experienced, much less how he's managed to keep going.

"I'm doing my best," he says quietly, leaning in toward the computer screen. "I promise you, I'm doing my best. I will do everything I can to bring Sam back to you."

Samuel sighs and runs a hand down his weathered face. "I don't doubt it, Dr. Novak. I just don't know what it is that you can do. But . . . thank you."

He gets up and moves away from the screen, leaving Gwen alone in front of the computer. Shiny tear tracks glimmer on her face, and her eyes glitter as she looks at Cas. "Do you think . . . Is there something that can help Sam?" She wipes her cheeks with her palms. "I stopped coming to see him--it was just too--" Her words break off.

Cas shakes his head. "It's okay. I understand. It's very painful to see someone we love in this state for so long. Don't think less of yourself, my dear." He wishes he could give her a little pat or hug of reassurance.

She looks away and sniffles. "No, it's not. It wasn't fair of me." Her eyes return to Cas. "Sam would never have given up on me. I was a coward. I can't come right away, but I'll come soon. I promise."

"That would be lovely. I know it would mean a lot to Sam. I thank you and your grandfather very much for agreeing to this call, Gwen, and I'm so sorry it was so upsetting. I promise to keep you posted on any changes with Sam."

Gwen nods and the screen goes blank. Cas sits back in his chair, mulling over what he's learned. The image of toddler Sam lying in a pool of blood with the bodies of his parents will not leave him.

Sitting up, he pulls a notepad toward him and begins to jot things down.

1\. Police report? 

He thinks, if he could get a copy of the original report, there might be more information to be gleaned, including . . . 

2\. Pictures?

3\. Ask Sam what he remembers?

4\. Research possible links between Sam's touch aversion /mutism and traumatic events.

He taps the pen against his lips, letting thoughts flow through his mind.

5\. Talk to Dean Winchester.

Dean is the only one Sam has uttered a word to, or touched. Cas wants to find out why.

Sam huddles at one end of Dr. Novak's cozy love seat. He knows the doctor will be asking about his physical encounter with Dean, and he has no answers. He doesn't know anymore than anyone else why he was able to touch the man. Sure, he wanted to, but he's wanted to touch other people before too. Gwen. His grandfather. People who'd been his friend, albeit fleetingly.

For that matter, Sam muses to himself, why does he not freak out when he awakes in restraints to find Gordon jacking him off? How could that touch escape Sam's usual violent reaction? What makes Gordon or Benny's handling tolerable to Sam's psyche, but not the hug of his beloved cousin?

He doesn't know. Nothing makes sense. Just thinking is difficult enough sometimes, with all the debates and conversations going on in his head. Much less the torture.

He looks up as Dr. Novak finishes what he's doing at his desk and comes to sit by Sam.

"Hi, Sam. How are you today?"

Sam manages a slight shrug.

"Okay. I want to tell you that I spoke with your grandfather, Samuel, and your cousin, Gwen this morning."

Sam is stunned. They talked to Dr. Novak? Why? Apparently his wide eyes convey something of this to the doctor, who nods and smiles.

"Yes, Sam, they still care about you. They're just . . . frustrated. At a loss for what to do. I think Gwen may be coming to see you soon, but I'm not sure about Samuel. He was reluctant to travel. Nonetheless, he was very concerned about you, and I wanted you to know that. They do care about you."

Sam's chest is tight. Gwen. Samuel. They still care about him, still thought about him. Tears prickle in his eyes, but he ignores them. Tears are a fast track to Alastair--he's drawn to them like a magnet. Sam digs a thumbnail into his thigh to distract himself.

_Maybe I'll call him anyway,_ whispers Meg. _He could lick those sweet little tears right off your eyeballs, and then make you cry for real. Wouldn't that be fun?_ She giggles.

Sam grits his teeth and stares at Dr. Novak, who is giving him a slightly puzzled look.

"Are you all right, Sam? Is something going on? Can you tell me what it is?"

Sam gives a tiny but fierce shake of his head. _No, no, can't talk about it, makes it worse. Just go on, please, please. Before he comes._ His knee starts to jiggle a little on the velvet cushion of Dr. Novak's love seat.

Dr. Novak studies him a few more seconds and then does what Sam is silently begging--he moves on. "I talked to him about your early life, Sam. Specifically, your parents' death."

The room spins and falls away for a moment, leaving Sam standing in his old nursery, looking at the bodies of his mom and dad where they're sprawled on the floor, a wide red pool oozing around them. His fist is stuffed into his mouth to keep him from screaming, but he can't help the whimpers that leak out around it. Daddy, usually so big and tall and strong, is lying limp, his eyes blank, his hand stretched out to Mommy like he's reaching for her. Mommy looks . . . broken, like one of Sam's busted toys; her leg is at a funny angle, and she looks so . . . flat, like her face was smushed real hard against the floor. Her blonde hair is tumbled across her face, but he can see one eye through it, and it's looking right at him; it's the same bright blue as Mommy's eyes always were, only now it looks like an plastic eye in one of his stuffies.

Sam whimpers again and tries very, very hard to forget what he just saw. Tries to forget the dark stranger who was talking to his parents when he came in the room. How the stranger--the man all in black--spun Daddy around with savage punches, and then stabbed him right in the middle with a big, jagged knife. How Mommy flew up against the ceiling with a wave of the man's hand. _How'd he do that, huh? Mommy? Come down, don't like this game--_ How she cried and begged for Sam to run, _run!_ How the same shiny knife slashed across her belly before she crashed down to the floor with a huge bang that made the whole house shake.

"Sam . . . Sam . . . breathe, Sam, you're all right, you're safe. Sam . . ." A soft voice right next to him, talking to him. Dr. Novak, so close Sam can feel the heat of his body, but he's not touching Sam. His warm breath is at Sam's ear as the doctor tries to reach him, calm him. Sam realizes he's in a tight ball, his arms wrapped around his legs, all his muscles tense and tight.

_No, no, not okay, not safe . . .go away, Alastair will come, everyone will come . . ._ Sam squeezes his eyes shut again, tight tight tight. _If I can't see, maybe I won't see him, he won't come . . ._

"See who, Sam? Who's coming?" A soft urgency in the doctor's voice. Sam grimaces, he didn't know he was actually talking, letting things out. _This is bad, bad, very bad . . ._

"Sam, you're safe, you're in my office. Who's coming? What are you scared of? Talk to me, Sam, tell me, I want to help you!"

Sam opens his eyes a slit and sees Dr. Novak, his bright blue eyes-- _like Mommy's, so like Mommy's_ \--looking intently at Sam, black eyebrows drawn together, his whole face radiating concern. One hand hovers over his arm for a moment before the doctor remembers and pulls it back. Sam gasps and Dr. Novak's mouth turns down in dismay.

"Please, Sam, I want to help you. Stay with me. Stay here. Whatever it is, I'll help you!"

Sam can already hear the chains clinking in the distance, the desperate wails that always accompany Alastair. Meg's giggling like she always does when Sam's about to be tortured. Kevin looks imploringly at Sam as he plaintively asks, _Why, Sam, why? What's the point of this? How can you go through this again and again? Haven't you gone through enough?_ and shakes his head sadly as he wanders away.

"Sam!" A hiss into his ear, pointed and urgent. "Sam! Can you tell . . .?"

He musters his strength, _pushes_ against them all, and whispers to Dr. Novak, "Alastair! Meg! . . . the chains!" He gasps, manages a last utterance. "Punishment . . . "

Then he falls away and away and away, spirals down into the smoky fires, feels the hot coals crackling underneath him as Alastair's rich voice curls down from above. As he screams from the heat, feels his skin start to blacken, Alastair croons, _Oh, my boy, my boy . . . we've been very naughty, very naughty indeed. I must teach you a lesson, dear Sam, a lesson in many parts, and all of them are pain._ Chains loop around Sam's hands and feet, around his neck, and they tighten as Alastair continues, _I know you'll be a good student, now won't you, Sam. I want your full attention, dear boy!_ And the chains jerk, enough to make him choke and cough, keeping him fully splayed for Alastair's pleasure.

Meg dances over and rips his scrubs off, running her hands down his naked body. She yanks on his nipples, reaches between his legs and delivers a solid slap to his balls as she throws back her head and howls. He yells but can't even move, he's held so tightly by the chains. She laughs and kisses him, her foul, snaky tongue probing his mouth, leaving a dank, fetid taste behind. She straddles his chest, rips her blouse off and leans over, rubbing her white breasts against him. They're neither deliciously soft or enticingly firm, but instead feel unpleasantly, almost amphibiously squishy as they push over his face. Her nipples are pointed, like tiny daggers; they scrape and scratch his skin as she wriggles against him. He smells dead leaves and rotting meat on her skin, has to fight not to puke. If he does, no one will turn his head and he'll choke on his own vomit. Experience has taught him he won't die from it, like in the outside world, but it's really, really, really gross.

Enough! says Alastair, and he motions for Meg to dismount Sam. She leers at him one last time. Don't think I'm not going to pop that sweet cherry soon! That big dick isn't going to go to waste in that fucking loony bin! She cackles and leans in close; her teeth sink into his chest as she opens her mouth and bites around his nipple. He screams at the needling pain. Her teeth leave little pinpricks of blood welling up in a circle around his areola.

Enough foreplay--let's get down to business! Alastair hums as he turns to his equipment stand and ponders his selection. Ah, how about . . . these! he crows, and turns to Sam with a bowl of little metal clamps in hand. Meg is still standing nearby, one hand rubbing between her legs as she watches. Balthazar joins her, and he takes his constantly erect cock out and jerks it while he whispers to Meg. Alastair starts clipping the sharp-toothed clamps--ones that pierce right through the skin to fasten--on Sam's belly and balls, crooning happily as he carefully places each one. Balthazar fucks Meg as she stands there watching Alastair work, his hands gripping her wide hips, her squishy breasts jouncing unevenly as he pounds into her. She looks directly at Sam, sticking out her snaky tongue while Balthazar practically lifts her feet off the floor with the force of his thrusts. She squeals and pants, her fingers plucking at her nipples as Balthazar clamps one hand over her pussy and keeps fucking her hard.

Alastair puts clips on Sam's penis now, giving it several tugs with his cold, bony hand first to make it half-erect, and he can feel the blood welling up from the ones already in place. As they pierce the tender skin of his cock, his screams rip through his throat.

That's my boy! Alastair praises him as he toys with all the clips; it's like he's playing a keyboard, the way he fiddles with and slaps them, wrenching and twisting them as they remain fastened through Sam's skin. The music he's composing is Sam's agony, written in his cries and blood. 

Sam's torment goes on and on. Eventually, the clips are removed, bringing a new wave of anguish, and new punishments are unleashed. Each one pushes Sam to to higher levels of pain, of suffering, until finally he blessedly blacks out.

"Hey, Sam . . . hey, buddy."

Dean. Husky voice near his ear, Dean's cologne and his warmth wafting around Sam. He grunts in response, his voice in tatters from screaming.

"Bad one, huh . . . sorry, man. Let's get you free, okay?"

Sam hadn't even registered that he was restrained. His entire body aches. His crotch feels like it was trampled and then stabbed with a million needles. He hopes everything still works okay. Maybe Dean would get him some ice.

Dean deftly undoes the restraints, throwing the heavy leather bands aside, then helps Sam to sit up. He has a urinal bottle ready, but Sam shakes his head. He can make it to the bathroom this time. Even at that short distance, Sam's legs want to buckle, and his muscles are stiff.

Dean waits until he's at the toilet and helps pull down his scrubs without any apparent embarrassment. Attendants have to tend to patients' most intimate needs sometimes; Sam figures they get over it quickly or they don't last. Dean has been unfazed by everything he's helped Sam with so far. Sam discreetly checks himself out as he sits there, but everything looks normal. No visible damage--his skin is unbroken, not even bruised. It's a little hard to reconcile the way he feels with the evidence of his eyes. He guesses he'll have to wait and see how everything functions, but this is already a relief. Most of the time, what happens in his private Hell stays there, but sometimes bruises or small cuts manage to show up here.

Wash, brush, take the meds that Dean hands to him. Back into the bedroom to dress. As always, Dean's brought him clean scrubs and underwear. Sam slowly strips and redresses. He sees Dean look at his dick and look away, his jaw clenching. Sam slides his hand down and palms himself, feels his dick chub in his grip. He gives himself a couple of strokes and is relieved that it feels good.

"Dude, dude--you need some privacy? Don't be doing that in front of me," Dean says gently, but firmly.

Sam points at him, then back at himself, looking back down as he gives himself a stroke. He's never considered having sex with anyone in his limited world so far, but Dean . . . Dean is tall and strong, handsome, caring. Not like kind but wimpy Garth, or buff and cruel Gordon. Sam thinks . . . maybe he would like it with Dean.

"Sam, stop. I . . . look, please get dressed and we'll talk, okay?" Dean clears his throat, and Sam sees his hand slide to his own crotch and press down. He feels a small glow of satisfaction. He's given Dean a boner. Dean likes him. Likes him like _that_.

He dresses, and Dean pulls the chair over so they can face each other.

"Sam, I'm not gonna lie--I think you are smokin' hot." Sam gives him a little smile, and Dean smiles back before he goes on. "But! And this is a big 'but'!" Sam snickers. Dean mock-frowns at him. "This is serious. We sure can't do anything we can't talk about first. So, I know you are twenty-one, and technically an adult, or you wouldn't be here, right?"

Sam nods.

"But--dude, you are a patient here. I cannot take advantage of a patient. You have shit up the wazoo to deal with. I don't know if you know what you're really doing or agreeing to, and I don't screw around without consent. And finally, we don't even know if I can even _touch_ you. Unless we slip a giant condom over you, that's a problem. Added up all together, it means no way." Dean runs a hand over his head as Sam sags. "At the very least, for now. We get past some of these hurdles--we can re-evaluate. Fair? 'Cause I'm not saying I don't want to--yeah, buddy, I sure do--I'm saying we got things to work out. Okay?"

Sam looks at his feet for a minute, thinking it over. Admittedly, he's never thought about someone like this. After the beatings and torture his body takes from his personal pantheon, he wouldn't have thought he'd even want to. But he is definitely feeling things about Dean that point to a kind of relationship he is unfamiliar with. He understands Dean's hesitations, but he is happy Dean shares his desire.

He looks directly at Dean and nods. They smile at each other in mutual understanding.

Cas clears his screen and Googles again. _Alastair . . .Meg . . . chains . . . punishment._ He's searched those words individually, then in various pairs, then altogether. They're all regular words that pop up in a million documents. The only hint of a clue is possibly the name Alastair. On a link to a site discussing various magical and occult information, Alastair showed up on a list of demon names.

 _Demon names? Really, Novak?_ Cas huffs and sits back, rubbing his eyes. _Am I really researching demon names?_

_You got any better ideas? It's his construct. You need to learn about it._ his brain responds matter-of-factly.

He sighs and sits back up, pulling his laptop closer and clicking on the link for Alastair.

Alastair is a high level demon with a great deal of power. He is thought to be in the inner circle of demons that surround Lucifer himself. Each demon has their own particular power or strength, and Alastair's is--

Cas leans forward. _What the fuck . . . ?_

\--is 'punishment'. Alastair is a master of torture, taking great delight in tormenting and torturing his victims as 'punishment' for whatever trivial infractions he or his overlord deem worthy of attention. He's often known simply as "The Punisher," dragging around his chains and implements of torture.

Chains. Punishment.

Alastair.

Cas feels a chill go down his back as he stares at the screen.

_Holy shit._

 

Sam sits in the activity room, gazing at the aqua-tinted light coming through the windows. There's a book in his hands, but he's not reading. Instead, he daydreams about Dean and all the things about Dean that draw Sam to him. It's not just Dean's physical attributes, although those are numerous and noteworthy themselves, every single one. It's things like Dean's humor--his corny jokes, bad puns, and snarky comments. His careful, deft work on the ward. His caring and concern for all of the patients, and especially Sam. 

He starts to drift into last night's bedtime fantasy about Dean, shifting as his dick responds. Last night was the third or fourth time he'd masturbated as he specifically visualized Dean, and he'd been blown away again by how much stronger his orgasm was. Sam debated letting Dean know that maybe he did need those extra supplies as he squeezed his thighs together, shifting his hips a little to get some friction.

His steamy reverie is broken by a fracas across the room. Kubrick is hopping around pantsless again, going on about the angels as Gordon chases him. Kubrick's skinny, pale prick is the antithesis of how Sam envisions Dean's, and it quells his lust. He looks at Gordon and blinks--Gordon's scrubs are clearly tented as he is trying to catch Kubrick. _That's completely inappropriate,_ Chuck frets. _This asylum is no place for this kind of behavior! These people are patients!_ He flits around the room, arms fluttering nervously. _But it's so fun!_ cackles Balthazar, gamboling around after Gordon. _Gordy-bear wants to fuck Kubrick's bony ass! Catch him, Gordy, catch him! Dibs on a spit-roast!_ He shoos Gordon on with flapping hands.

Sam looks over at Dean, and he can tell immediately that Dean has seen it too. Dean's face is stern and his hands are balled into fists. Sam's relieved--Dean will take care of it. Gordon has pawed Sam at least half a dozen times, but at least he never tried to fuck Sam. Judging by Kubrick's now-frantic fleeing from Gordon, Sam suspects Kubrick has not been so fortunate.

Dean waits until Kubrick runs past him, then shoots his arms out and grabs hold of Gordon. Garth has managed to get in front of Kubrick, who now ends up running smack into the weedy attendant. They go down in a tangle of limbs, and then other attendants jump in, pulling both men up and leading Kubrick away in a lockstep.

Gordon curses at Dean. "What the fuck! I was--"

"Shut it! We can _see_ what you were!" Dean spits out, looking pointedly at Gordon's crotch. "How on earth do you even find this hot, Walker? What kind of animal are you?" A couple of doctors are now on the scene, and the head of the asylum enters. Dr. Robert Singer strides over, taking in the scene with a few quick looks. When his eyes fall on Gordon's still-erect member, he grimaces as he averts his eyes.

"Mr. Winchester, sit-rep!" he barks. Dean explains what happened, which was a pretty straightforward occurrence in Sam's view, but then how he noticed Gordon's inappropriate response. Garth chimes in about Dean catching Gordon, and that Kubrick is now on ice in his own room.

The patients are all clustered around now, watching. The attendants and nurses rule their world--this is a very big deal. Sam looks around and wonders who else has been favored with Gordon's attentions. There's Benny too--do they even know about him yet?

Dr. Singer is incensed, his brows drawn low and his jaw tensed underneath his grizzled brown beard. "Get this man out of here! Call the police and have him arrested. Hold him in an empty room until then." He glares at Gordon. "You are disgusting! Preying on people who can't say no to satisfy your own petty urges! Understand me, sir, you _will_ be prosecuted for these actions! Go on, take him away!"

Sam smiles to himself as he sees Gordon's rampant hard-on is finally subdued. Dr. Singer is conferring quietly with some of the other doctors, and Sam notices that Dr. Novak is there. Maybe he can tell Dr. Novak about Benny. Dean brought Gordon down . . . maybe Sam can stand up for something as well.

He gets up and sidles around to Dr. Novak, who notices him and looks at him questioningly. Sam tips his head, and Dr. Novak excuses himself to join Sam. He sees concern in the doctor's face, but he doesn't know what he can do about it.

"Sam? Are you all right?" Dr. Novak's blue eyes peer at him. Sam shrugs and shakes his head--not really.

"Is it Gordon? Sam, did Gordon . . ."

Sam looks away, unable to bear Dr. Novak's concern. Maybe he can't do this.

"Sam, I don't want to distress you, but we'll need to know everything we can about Gordon's activities. I know you understand that, yes? Did he molest you in any way?"

Sam looks back at Dr. Novak. He exhales slowly, then nods once. Dr. Novak's eyes widen and his mouth turns down.

"Jesus, Sam . . . did he hurt you? Did he . . ."

Sam knows Dr. Novak means, _Did he rape you?_ He shakes his head no.

"Okay. Not that's really okay, just . . . at least you were spared that. We'll have to talk more about this for the investigation, but we don't have to do that right now. Was there something you wanted to tell me?"

Sam nods again, then leans in toward Dr. Novak, who immediately leans toward Sam.

"Go ahead, Sam." He waits silently.

Sam moves his mouth, but nothing comes out. Frustration fills him. He huffs, but it's only air.

"It's okay, Sam, I know this is very difficult for you, says Dr. Novak gently.

Sam looks around in exasperation, and sees that Dean has returned. He waves to catch Dean's attention, then gestures him over.

Dean joins them, greeting Dr. Novak. "What's up? Do you guys need a hand with something?" He looks at Sam, then back to Dr. Novak.

Sam claps to bring Dean's attention back to him. He leans over to Dean's ear, catching his surprised expression as he does so. 

_"Be . . . Benny,"_ he manages to whisper softly into Dean's ear.

Dean's head jerks back, alarm on his features. "Sam! Are you saying--"

Sam nods. He holds up two fingers like a peace sign, then brings them together. Dean catches his breath and turns to Dr. Novak, who is watching them with fascination.

"Doctor, Sam is saying that Benny LaFitte is also guilty of the same behavior we saw with Gordon."


	3. Chapter 3

Cas shuts the door of his office and leans against it, his body sagging as he sighs heavily. It had been a long afternoon, filled with police taking statements, agitated patients, and ending with Gordon Walker and Benny LaFitte in handcuffs being led to separate police cruisers. As relieved as Singer and the staff had been to see them go, they knew the fall-out would continue for a long time. Singer had grunted his unhappiness to Cas before stomping off to his office, saying something about bad apples and lawyers and needing some Johnny Walker Blue.

As Cas sinks down onto his big leather desk chair, he finally takes a moment to consider the other big discovery of the day. Sam spoke. Only one word, but _any_ word he managed to eke out was significant. And in this case, it had been a word that revealed another molester, possibly a rapist. He'd done this while under a high degree of stress, during an unbelievably tense scene. Cas is amazed by the strength Sam had displayed.

Plus, there was the Dean aspect. Sam hadn't been able to verbalize to Cas, but he could to Dean. And for Dean's part, he'd been able to interpret Sam's single word and a gesture, expressing everything Sam wanted to say. Clearly their bond was strengthening.

Cas rocks back in his chair, lost in thought. Maybe he can use this. Maybe Dean can sit in on their sessions, with Sam's permission of course, and "translate" more of Sam's thoughts and feelings. He knows this is unusual, but he rationalizes by deciding that a deaf patient would use a sign interpreter; this was much along the same lines. Sam has difficulty communicating. Dean can help.

He shuffles through his files to find a consent form, excitement building in him, only this time it was of a hopeful nature.

Sam lies in his bed. His body is quiet, fairly relaxed under his light cotton sheet, but his mind is still racing. Still replaying Gordon being escorted out in handcuffs, and summoning the gumption to tell Dean about Benny. He still has to make a statement to the police about both men molesting him, but Dean and Dr. Novak said they would be with him. It was scary, but at the same time he felt . . . proud of himself. He'd done it. He'd said it. He'd helped.

He knows Dean made the difference. Dean helped him be strong, helped him to talk. Maybe he could talk more. 

Maybe he could try touching Dean again.

Sam's hands slide down his body to his groin, cupping and gently squeezing his cock. As soon as he'd thought about Dean, it started plumping up inside his pajamas. Under his hand, it hardens further, poking up at the loose waistband of his sleep pants. He slips one hand inside and grips it, humming at the pleasure the pressure gives him. He runs his thumb over the head, around the flared edge. He strokes firmly, base to head, sweeping his thumb over the slit. Ah, there--a bead of precome oozing out that Sam smears over the fat helmet.

He sinks into his thoughts as he slowly jacks himself. Dean materializes behind his eyelids, and Sam savors every gorgeous detail. The engaging crinkles that fan out at the corner of Dean's eyes when he smiles. His impossibly thick lashes over those sparkling green eyes. The fullness of his lips, pink and shiny when he rolls his tongue over them. Sam moans a little and keeps stroking himself as his other hand roves further south to his balls. Oh god, they're so sensitive; the heat of his hand feels so damn good, and when he rolls them in their loose sac, squeezing the soft ovoids within, it makes his hips buck. 

He bites his lip to stay quiet as his hands work faster and harder. He pictures how broad Dean's shoulders are, and how the short sleeves of his scrub top are unable to conceal the bulky curves of muscle in his arms and shoulders. Dean's lean body then arrows down to slim hips and an ass that begs to be squeezed like ripe fruit, followed by those bowed legs that are so damn sexy. Sam wants those legs around him, trapping him, holding him close, riding him.

Sam can't even imagine how incredible Dean must look naked. He's seen plenty of nakedness in the hospital, but no one is as beautiful or hot as Dean, so Sam just doesn't know how to picture him. Does he have those hip grooves, like Gordon did? How big is his dick? How fat? Does he have a lot of hair down there? None?

His cock throbs so urgently that he pants quietly, and he can feel sweat popping out along his body. Fluid is leaking freely from his slit, and it helps slick his hand as he jacks faster. His fingers move down from his balls, finding his hole and rubbing it. He hasn't done this before, but he's curious. He brings his index finger up and smears pre-come on the tip, then goes back to rubbing his hole.

His mouth is wide open now, he's breathing in short gasps as the sensations overtake him. _Oh god, so good . . . Dean . . . Dean, touch me, fuck me, please . . . uh uh fuck . . . tighter, harder, c'mon Dean, fuck me!_ His body is tense, everything seizing up with his oncoming orgasm. He slips the tip of his finger in his hole and he's done, shooting all over his belly and the underside of his sheet, hips thrusting up, muscles spasming. A high-pitched whine escapes him as he squeezes his dick hard, a final dribble of come trickling out and running down his side.

_Jesus._

He breathes hard, his body heavy and lax. His fingers uncurl from his spent cock, and he wipes them on the outside of the sheet. He's a mess, but he doesn't care. Even as his heart still beats rapidly from his orgasm, yet he feels calm.

_Jesus. Dean._

His mind is at peace.

Sam sleeps.

Cas can't help the excitement rising inside him. Today will be the first time Dean joins Sam's daily session with Cas. While past experience has taught Cas not to hope unduly, that the path to health is bumpy and arduous, he's still unable to keep from praying that things will start to change for Sam.

_Please, please let us reach him. Let him be able to open up and tell us what is going on inside his head. Please . . . I just want to help him. Let me help him._

He runs his hands through his hair, waiting for the knock at the door.

And there it is.

"Come in!" he calls, even as he walks over to open it. Dean and Sam are there, Sam standing slightly in front of Dean.

_Jesus, look how tall the boy is getting,_ thinks Cas. _He's almost as tall as Dean already._ Sam's thick, dark brown hair is fairly shaggy, flopping into his slightly angled eyes. Cas rarely gets to look into them, and he's almost taken by surprise when Sam meets his gaze directly. _Green? Blue? Isn't that . . . brown? Such unusual coloring . . ._ While Sam's pointed noise and high cheekbones are already well-defined, Cas can see that he's still just coming out of his adolescence, that his features have not quite finished maturing.

"Everything okay, Dr. Novak?" Dean asks, and Cas realizes he's just standing there stupidly.

"Oh, fine, fine, Dean. Just lost in thought for a moment. Come in and sit down, both of you." 

Sam takes his usual spot on the love seat, and Dean sits in the armchair. Cas pulls his desk chair over and sits across from Sam, a notepad resting in his lap.

"Okay, guys. Now, Sam, you have given Dean permission to be here and help in this session, correct?" Sam gives him a thumbs up. "And Dean, you're going to sit quietly and let Sam communicate, help him express himself to me, but not put words in his mouth?" Dean nods, looking distinctly nervous.

"Not to worry, Dean. I just want to make it easier for Sam to express what's in his head, so that we are better able to help him. So . . . let's begin."

"Sam, I want to say how very proud I am of you, for letting us know about Benny. That was very difficult for you, but you did it, and you made a big difference to the hospital. Thank you. I was very impressed at your strength."

Sam ducks his head, hiding under the fall of hair.

"I'm asking you to stay strong now as we work on what's disrupting you inside. First, I'm curious about some words you said at an earlier session. You were heading into a blackout, and you managed to say these words: 'chains . . . Meg . . . Alastair . . . punishment.' Can you let me or Dean know what these words mean?"

Cas is so focused on Sam that Dean's reaction takes him by surprise. Dean starts, his hands clutching the arms of his chair, and his mouth opens for a second before he snaps it shut. Cas looks at him with a little alarm and gives a tiny shake of his head. _Dean, don't distract him..._

Dean settles into his chair again, only the taut line of his mouth indicating his tension.

"Sam?"

Sam bites his bottom lip, and his hands clutch together. He looks very unhappy, and more than a little nervous.

"Sam, are these trigger words for you somehow? Is Meg someone you used to know? Or Alastair?"

Sam curls up on the love seat.

_Shit! I was hoping between the words and Dean, we might start to find things out!_ Cas sighs.

"It's okay, Sam. You're safe here."

Sam looks over at Dean, and apparently Dean surprises him as well. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow as he regards the tension clearly visible in the attendant's body.

Cas looks at both of them. 

"Sam, do you think Dean is tense? I do, too. Dean, I cut you off before, but can you go ahead now and tell us what startled you so much?" _Clutching at straws, but what else do I have? I can't imagine what Dean knows, but something is up with him._

Dean sits stiffly, hands fisted on the arms of his chair, jaw clenched. Sam keeps his eyes on Dean as he touches his own head, then his heart, then spreads his hand open, palm up. Dean sighs and rolls his eyes.

"Sam wants me to tell you what's wrong, what I'm thinking." Dean's voice is gravelly. "He's worried about me." He looks at Sam. "I'm worried about _you._ We're here for _you,_ not for me."

Sam shakes his head and points at Dean.

Cas watches them, fascinated by how interactive Sam is with Dean. How Sam obviously cares about Dean. _Okay then, let's go down this path. Maybe the road through Dean will lead us to Sam._

"Okay then, Dean. What is it? You clearly had a reaction to what I said--can you tell us why?"

Dean abruptly pushes himself up from his chair and walks around the office, running a hand through his already messy hair. "It's crazy. I mean--" He catches himself and looks back at Cas and Sam. "I'm sorry. It's . . . something highly unusual. You could say it's bizarre. Dr. Novak, I wouldn't be surprised if you decided I should be an inmate here instead of an attendant. But . . . " Dean sighs and comes back, plopping down into his chair again. "Just . . . hear me out. Don't pass judgment until I've explained." He looks at each of them, and both Cas and Sam nod.

Dean rubs his face before he continues. "Okay. I reacted because I've heard the name Alastair before. And I don't mean like my great-uncle Alastair or anything. Alastair and Meg and . . . punishment, they all add up to something very, very bad." 

Cas finds himself on the edge of his seat, leaning forward as he listens to Dean. He's aware of Sam being intently focused on Dean as well. The air feels very still but electrified, like the ozone heralding a thunderstorm. 

"Alastair and Meg . . . they're not just characters in Sam's dreams or illness. They're demons."

Sam wants to scream, but he can't make a sound. He's frozen on his love seat, staring with horror at Dean.

 _Dude, you had to run with scissors, didn't you? Gonna get cut that way . . ._ Gabriel tsks. _I was betting you weren't going to push it. Joke's on me now!_ Gabriel cackles as he unwraps a candy and pops it into his mouth.

_Why? You always have to keep asking, Sam, haven't you learned yet? It's not safe, is it?_ Kevin shakes his head sadly. _Sam, I know things weren't great, but do you know what could happen to you now?_ He hides his face and turns away, his back to Sam. 

Sam shakes his head, hardly able to breathe. There is a buzzing in his ears that makes it hard to hear--Dr. Novak and Dean are both trying to talk to him, but he can't distinguish their words. Dr. Novak is handing him a cup of water, but his hand is shaking too much to grasp it.

Suddenly there's pressure on his hand. Dean. Dean's grabbed his hand and is holding it tightly. It's warm, it makes him feel safe. He looks into those green eyes, watching him with such concern and . . . and love.

"Stay here." Dean's words, spoken firmly, emerge through the buzzing. "Stay here, Sam. It's okay, you're safe. He's not here."

He hears a _chink chink_ of chains in the distance and trembles.

_Think loverboy here is going to protect you? Save you? Is he gonna wave his magic dick around, Sam?_ Meg laughs harshly. _Oh, little boy, you are so stupid. Daddy's coming, and he is pissed!_

"No . . ." Sam whispers. "No . . . he . . . " He gulps, trying to swallow in a dry throat. Dr. Novak holds the water to his lips, and he sips it. "De . . . he's . . . " He gestures weakly with one hand.

"He's coming, Sammy?" Dean's mouth sets in a line. "Well, he's not going to get you. You're mine. Do you hear me, Sam? You're mine!"

Even through the terror building inside him, that statement gives Sam a warm sense of security. He jerks his head in a nod.

"Y'rs . . ."

Cas feels his attention split. Half of his mind is focused on Sam, his patient, and trying to keep him grounded, keep him from going into a blackout. The other half is struggling to digest Dean's words.

_"They're demons."_

What the fuck does that even _mean?_

He pushes that question aside, promising himself to return to it, but right now Sam needs his help.

Dean is now holding both of Sam's hands between his, talking constantly to him in a soft voice.

"You can do it, Sam. Stay here. Stay with me. We'll figure out what to do with the voices, but right now I want you to stay with me. C'mon, Sammy, you can do it."

Sam is shaking and his teeth are chattering, but he's totally focused on Dean, eyes wide as they stare into Dean's. Every so often, he gives a short nod as he listens.

Cas marvels at the tangible strength of the bond between them. Fixed on each other, the energy between them practically glows. And Dean's hands, holding so tightly onto Sam's, are not sending the young man into his usual touch-aversion fit, which is incredible. Cas finds himself caring less about why that is and more simply rejoicing about it. 

Sam's body slowly stops shaking, and he slumps in fatigue. He still clings to Dean's hands, but then tension drains out of his face, and he begins to look sleepy.

"You okay there, buddy? Are they gone?" Dean questions gently.

Sam nods. "Gone . . . now." His head lolls back, and Dean lunges forward to catch him, holding his lanky body close as Sam's eyes shut.

Deans anxiously at Cas. "Is it a seizure?"

Cas shakes his head. "No, I think this is simply exhaustion after his struggle. See his eyes moving under the lids, and how even his breathing is? That's normal sleep. Let me get a wheelchair and you can put him to bed, let him sleep it off."

Dean nods, returning his gaze to Sam's lax face as Cas obtains the wheelchair. As they bundle Sam into it, Cas said, "Dean, I want to talk more about this with you. About the . . . demons?" He can't believe he's even saying a sentence like that.

Dean's mouth tightens as he nods. "Yeah, I think we need to. Sammy's going to have to hear it too, though. And there's some information I have to get, a call or two I gotta make. Soon as I do that, we can have a powwow."

"Sure . . . wow, this is unreal. How are we even talking about this?" Cas scrubs his face with his hands.

Dean puts a hand on Cas' shoulder. "I know it's weird, man. Welcome to my life. And in the meantime, I just want to say that you do great work here. I've seen you with other patients on the ward, and here with Sam, and Doc . . . you really care. So . . . thanks."

Cas goes through his other appointments and sessions after Dean takes Sam away, but the feeling of disbelief stays with him, lingering in the background of his thoughts. Dean texts him near the end of the day to suggest a night meeting.

_I'll bring Sam to your office after lights out. I found out what I need to know, and we all need to hear it. Be there at 10._

Cas spends the evening staring stupidly at paperwork, while a tray from the cafeteria cools nearby. When the knock on the door finally comes, he jumps in shock before rolling his eyes at himself.

Sam is alert and jittery, tension evident in his rigid muscles and darting eyes. Dean appears calmer, but Cas gets a predatory vibe from him, as if his muscles are coiled, ready to spring. He has a steady gaze that misses nothing, keeping track of Sam as well as scanning the office.

"Come in, come in, both of you. Sam, take the love seat, of course. Dean, your chair from earlier." They all settle into their seats. "Dean, you said you wanted to find out some information, and now you have. What did you want to tell us?"

"I have to go back a bit, give you a little background. Not gonna lie, this is some strange shit. I understand if y'all don't believe me at first, but . . . bear with me." He looks intently at both Cas and Sam. "Working here at Glenwood Springs is not my real job. It's a temporary gig; I just needed to earn some money. My real job--I'm a hunter. And no, I don't mean animals. I hunt monsters. Monsters and demons and whatever evil shit lives in the dark and needs to be killed. That's what I do. I kill it."

He pauses, and Cas sees Sam take the same deep breath he's taking himself. Dean's words are unbelievable, and yet his steady tone and serious look convince Cas to believe.

"I don't expect you to understand this all at once. You're going to have to take my word for now. I've been doing this all my life, including when I was a child. I've spent my life studying these bastards and how to kill them. I'm not the only one, either. There's a lot of us. Most of us work alone or in pairs. I used to hunt with my dad until he was killed last year. Now I work alone, but I got some friends I can call for help when I need it. That's what I did today--I called someone who knows a shitload about this crap, and has books to check for what he don't know himself. He gave me the information I'm talking about here."

Dean's face looks ten years older as he talks, Cas thinks. The risk, the responsibility, settle on his features and change him from a young man, barely older than Sam, to a seasoned, dangerous fellow that knoww all about killing and death. Cas doesn't doubt that at the very least Dean believes every word he's saying, and listening to him, Cas does too.

"I don't know about Sam's mental health situation, but I do know that Alastair and Meg are real. They're demons, which means they're non-human entities from Hell. Alastair is a pretty high-level demon, Lucifer's inner circle you could say, while Meg is a lower rank. Dr. Novak, if Sammy here's been dreaming of them, you can bet those dreams are nothing but torture and pain and horror. They're might only be dreams, but to Sammy, when he's having them, they are _real_. He hears them, sees them, feels what they do to him. His suffering is _real_. Am I right, Sammy?"

Cas turns and saw Sam nod slowly, his arms wrapped around himself as if he's seeking comfort. The corners of his mouth turn down, and the pain so clearly evident in his eyes makes Cas catch his breath.

"Sam?" the doctor asks quietly. "Sam, is this true? Are Alastair and Meg coming to you in your dreams? Are they hurting you?"

Sam nods, a tear spilling from one eye and coursing down his cheek.

"Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." Cas unthinkingly reaches out to touch his patient, but pulls back before making contact. "Dean, can we do something to . . . ward these creatures off, to protect Sam?" _I can't believe I'm even asking this! Warding off Hell-creatures!?_

Dean says, "That's what we're going to try to do. And Doc, think this is weird? There's so much more out there, it would blow your mind."

Cas stares at Dean. _How did he . . ._

Dean laughs shortly. "Doesn't take a lot to read the expression on your face, Dr. Novak."

"Yeah, you're probably right," admits Cas, shaking his head. "And inside my office, please--call me Cas. I think if we're discussing supernatural forces, we should be on a first name basis."

Dean chuckles and nods, and even Sam flashes a quick grin, the wet trail of his tears still showing on his cheeks.

"Okay then," says Cas firmly. "What do we need to do, Dean? How can we help Sam?"

Dean fishes a few papers out of his pocket. "First, we're going to make a protective circle around him." He hauls a small backpack from over by the door, and takes out a canister of salt. "We make salt lines at the doors and windows, and we make a circle around Sam. Demons can't cross that." He follows his words by drawing the lines and then making a circle around Sam's love seat. "There. That keeps them out for the moment, should they manifest physically."

Manifest physically? That possibility hadn't even entered Cas' mind before. He fights panic down as it sinks into his brain.

Dean sits back down and looks at Sam again. "Sammy, not gonna lie--you are probably going to have to fight them to get rid of them. But you will not be fighting them alone, you hear? Me and Cas will be fighting right alongside you, okay?" He leans forward and kisses Sam's forehead. "That's a promise, baby."

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. Dean laughs.

"No baby?"

Emphatic shake.

"Okay, Sammy. Just so you know--I don't mean it like you _are_ a baby. I know you're not a baby--god, do I know." Cas coughs at the heat in Dean's voice, and Dean laughs again. "Sorry, Cas. Sammy, it just means . . . I'm fond of you. Like, you're _my_ baby. Like . . . my sweetheart."

Sam rolls his eyes and draws his finger across his neck, then flashes a thumbs up. Cas chuckles as Dean drops his head and then looks up with a half-smile. "Okay, you understand. I'll shut up now."

The moment breaks the heavy tension building in the room for a moment. Everyone sobers up quickly, though, when Dean pulls more items out of his backpack.

"Dean, how do we fight dreams? If these . . . beings are attacking him in his sleep and his blackouts, how do we stop them?" Cas asks.

"We use this." Dean waves a baggie with some dried material in it. Cas thought it looked kind of like pot, but stringier. "African dream-root. We make a tea and put a couple of hairs from Sammy's head in it, and we'll enter his dreams. Or nightmares, in this case." He looks grim again. "It's not going to be pleasant, Doc. You want to stay here, that's fine. This isn't your fight. You can watch over me and Sammy, keep us safe on this side." He musses Sam's hair, provoking what Cas could only dub a "bitchface" from the younger man. "Think you can spare a hair or two there?"

Dean gets up and goes over to Cas's tiny bathroom, picking two mugs up on the way. He half-fills them with water and puts a hair in each, then opens the baggie and adds a generous pinch of the dried dream-root. "Hope it tastes better than it smells, ugh!"

Cas feels paralyzed for a moment. This is so far beyond his sphere of knowledge, he might as well be in outer space. Then Dean's words penetrate his dazed mind and he jumps up from his chair.

"I'm going too!"

Dean turns to him, his face stern but calm. "It's okay, Cas. You don't have to do this. You don't _want_ to do this. No one does. It's okay."

Cas shakes his head. "Of course I don't want to. But Sam is my patient, and I'm going to help him any way I can, including tripping out on some root-tea shit and fighting impossible things. I'm going, Dean. Just tell me what to do." He picks up a third mug and hands it to Dean.

Dean looks at him soberly before fixing the mug the same way. "Okay, Doc. Not gonna lie, three's better than two, but it's your call. No one will think less of you if you stay."

Cas juts his jaw out stubbornly. Dean cracks a quick smile.

"All right, here's the 411. We drink the tea, and we all go into Sam's dream. Everything will seem real to us, but it isn't, so remember that when the weird shit starts.

"Now, we know about Alastair and Meg. They're demons, and they can be killed a couple of different ways. I'm going to use this knife--it's got magical properties and can kill a demon. Regular knives and guns can't. You two will have salt and holy water--you can throw those to repel a demon, or pour either in the demon's mouth to banish it. Demons can change their aspect, so if you aren't sure if it is a demon, say 'Christo' and it will make their eyes turn completely black. Got all that?"

Sam and Cas both nod. Cas's mind is buzzing, but when he looks at Sam, Sam just looks attentive.

Dean kneels in front of Sam and gives him his mug. "Sammy, what I need to know before we go in there, is if there are others. Are there others inside? Besides Alastair and Meg?"

Sam nods slowly. _Shit,_ thinks Cas. Dean's face seems to reflect the same thought.

"How many, Sammy?"

Sam holds up seven fingers. Cas feels his jaw drop. _Seven? How are we...?_

Dean's mouth is in a tense line as he rubs the back of his neck. "Wow. Don't do things by half, do ya, buddy?" Sam looks down, his face sad. "Hey hey hey, it's okay. Not what I hoped for, but we'll manage. C'mon, darlin', look at at me." Dean tips Sam's face back up with a finger.

Sam looks mutely at Dean's face, his eyes brimming. Dean runs his thumb over the wet lashes, sweeping the tears away. "'S okay. We got this. Now, do you know if they are all demons or not? How many demons altogether, Sammy?"

Sam nods and Cas watches intently as Sam raised his hand.

_Five._

"Five? Out of the seven?"

Sam nods. Dean smiles widely, blowing out a sigh of relief. "Well, that's better news. I'll take anything I can get. Seven was a little daunting." He musses Sam's hair, eliciting a grin and a little push from the teenager. "No sweat."

Cas can't help asking, "What about the others? What are the other two?"

Dean shrugs. "They ain't demons, and that's my first concern. They might be ghosts or spirits. We'll focus on the demons first, then we can ask questions later." He pulls some canteens out of the backpack, and Cas sees by their heavy sway that they are filled. "Holy water." They all sling one across themselves. Fat salt canisters follow, are tucked inside shirts. Dean pulls out a very long, serrated knife. Cas can't tell if the handle is wood or bone, but the blade itself is deadly-looking and inscribed with unfamiliar letters and runes.

"Kills demons. Only knife that does," Dean says as he buffs the blade on his sleeve and then slips it into his jacket. "Okay, let's all get comfy. It's naptime."

He settles onto the love seat with Sam, and Cas sits on the armchair. They raise their mugs to each other and drink.

_Oh god, this tastes like ass. No, I've tasted better ass than this,_ thinks Cas, and then he--

Sam hears the chains before he sees anyone. It's dark and foggy, making the surroundings difficult to make out. A flickering to one side draws his attention--it's a torch set into a wall holder. Now he can see the rough stone that comprises the wall, where a dark opening gapes.

"Jeez, dude, watch too many horror movies when you were a kid?" Dean is there, elbowing him in the ribs. He has to smile.

Cas comes up on the other side of him. "Sam, this is . . . well, um, very atmospheric."

"Okay, let's go in," Dean orders. "Cas, you and Sam stick close together. Keep any demons away from you, and try to distract one if they all come at me at once. I'm taking point." He steps forward, and they follow.

As they pass through the opening, Dean grabs the torch. "Stay alert. Stay together. Stay alive. Those are the rules."

A short hall lay on the other side of the door, dark and dank. It looks like pictures are hanging on the walls, but Sam can't discern what they're of. He does, however, feel that they are _moving,_ and it's not cool like in _Harry Potter_. He hurries past them.

A brighter opening comes into view. Sam's spine vibrates with apprehension. He grabs Cas's and Dean's sleeves, shaking his head when they look at him.

Dean indicates the brightness with his thumb, his arched eyebrows asking _There?_ Sam nods slowly. God, he doesn't want to go in there, but . . . that's kind of the point, right? He nods again, more firmly this time. Dean claps him on the shoulder and gives him a thumbs up. He can feel Dr. Novak--Cas--right next to him, the other man's heat helping to dispel the chilly dampness of the place.

They walk through the bright doorway, and it's everything Sam never wanted to see. Meg and Balthazar are fucking on a chaise, its red velvet shredded and dangling like dribbles of blood. She's on her back, legs spread wide and breasts bouncing, squealing as Balthazar pumps into her, his skinny ass clenching and flexing as he chortles and leers down at her. Kevin and Chuck are on the other side of the room; their backs are turned as they study papers and tablets, ignoring the rest of the room, intent on their work.

Gabriel and Crowley are sitting together at a table, playing something with cards and dice and coins and what looks like bits of bone, playfully arguing and insulting each other. They're also watching the fucking, commenting on both parties and making lewd suggestions. Crowley is sporting a major boner, and he keeps palming himself as he plays. Gabriel is enjoying heckling Meg and Balthazar, but he seems unaffected by the sex itself.

In the center of the room, Alastair stands, arms crossed in front of his chest. A heavy St. Andrew's cross is behind him to one side, and an assortment of hooks on various lengths of chains dangle from a thick ceiling beam on the other. He's positioned beside a rack with chains and manacles hanging off the ends, wearing a pristine cream canvas butcher's apron over a white button-down shirt. A rolling cart next to the rack has a jumble of frightening-looking things on its shelves, while the top shelf features a display of shiny-pointy-sharp things that Sam doesn't even know the names of, all neatly laid out on black cloth.

Sam is so beyond frightened that he almost doesn't feel anything. The only thing he's truly conscious of is Dean's heat bleeding through the flannel shirt Dean gave him to wear over his flimsy scrubs. Dr. Novak--Cas--looks stunned as he stands next to Sam, his bright blue eyes wide as they scope out the horrible scene in front of them.

_Oh, Doc, this is nothing. This right here? Nothing. Just wait._ And as that thought slides out of Sam's brain, the fear finally kicks in.

Cas can't believe what he's seeing. So much of it is actually somewhat ordinary that it shocks him. As the vision of the room and its inhabitants really sinks into him, the horror begins to trickle down his spine and make his limbs twitchy. The pair having sex are the least sexy thing he's ever beheld; their naked bodies repulse him as they writhe and thrust and squirm so unpleasantly, accompanied by grunts, squeals, and the flabby sound of bodies smacking together.

He tears his eyes away and looks quickly at the gamers, busy with their cards, dice, and other oddments. Another pair of men are huddled over a low table in the corner, crouched on stools while they rustle papers and study square pieces of stone that looked to be carved. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, and yet all chilling, as if the angles and movements are wrong in some subtle way. They seem oblivious to the trio that has just joined them.

The really terrifying one is the tall, cadaverous man facing them, long arms folded over a spotless butcher's apron. His serene expression jars harshly with the equipment surrounding him; Cas sees a lot of very sharp and shiny medical tools along with devices he'd only seen in articles on medieval torture, eons ago in some obscure history class. Clamps, manacles, hammers, and more jockey for space with hypodermic needles, scalpels, a bone saw, and various jars of evil-looking potions. Cas wonders what the big structure behind the man is, then realizes it is a St. Andrew's cross on which to flog or whip people. The hooks dangling from the ceiling are clearly for victims to hang from, whether by their arms or their necks. The whole arrangement makes him want to vomit.

"Dean!" sings out the cadaverous man, a smile wreathing his features and making them look even crueler. "My dear boy! I've been hoping you would come to see me! It's been too long!"

Cas whips around to look at Dean. Dean's eyes are green slits in a face hardened beyond his years, his jaw tense and his mouth narrowed to a line. If Cas hadn't seen him enter with them, he would not recognize him as the gentle man who was taking such tender, capable care of Sam.

"What the fuck do you want, Alastair?" Dean grinds out.

_Alastair! So this is the demon who's been tormenting Sam?_ Cas stares at him again, fear burning afresh inside him. Between seeing Sam's freak-outs and viewing this horrible place, Cas is getting a solid idea real fast as to what has been happening to Sam in his nightmares.

"You, Dean. I want you! You are the one who's going to get things rolling. You're destined to be mine, dear boy, and I want you as soon as I can have you!" Alastair's voice makes Cas feel that there are worms in his ears, and that cold water is dribbling down his back.

"You'll never have me, you scumbag. And you can't have Sam either, so let him go. He's not for you." Dean's fists are clenched as he spoke.

_Sam! Holy shit, what kind of doctor am I? Sam!_ Cas mentally smacks himself on the forehead as he looks over at his patient.

Sam's trembling, his face pale and his eyes huge as he watches the interaction between Dean and Alastair. Cas doesn't know if Sam even knows Cas is next to him, his attention is so riveted on the two men. Cas moves closer to him, laying a hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently. The young man slowly turns to look at him, but it's clear his eyes are not registering who's with him, instead staring blankly at Cas before returning to the conversation before him.

The slapping flesh stops with loud ululations from the chaise as both parties climax noisily. The man pulls out as he's still ejaculating, spraying thick semen copiously over the woman's body, his hand yanking on his dick to finish off his orgasm. The woman screeches angrily, shoving him almost off the love seat.

"You asshole! Pig! I didn't tell you you could shoot your nasty jizz all over me! See if I ever let you fuck me again!" She grabs a piece of clothing from the floor and begins to wipe herself off. The gamers find this whole exchange hilarious, and catcall the pair amid hearty laughter.

"Enough!" bellows Alastair. "You try my patience, you two!"

The woman gets up and approaches the trio, an ugly leer on her face. "Can I have one when you're done, sir? They're all so handsome, and I'd love to debase and pervert at least one of them. Please?" She studies each of them, her hands squeezing her large breasts and roving across her belly, sliding down into her crotch, her plump thighs still shiny with fluids.

Dean smirks as he calls out, "Hey, Balthazar! You can't have satisfied her too much if she's ready to go again this soon. Maybe she needs a real man with a real dick!" Then he leans closer to Meg and stage-whispers, "Or is it that your cunt is like the Grand Canyon and _nothin'_ can fill it?"

She slaps him hard; Cas hears the crack of her hand on Dean's cheek, and sees Dean's head whip around. "You just wish you could fuck me--once you do, you'll never want a human woman again!" she hisses.

"Baby, I don't want a human woman _now._ " Dean bites the words out, and then his hand flashes as it whips the demon-killing knife out, plunging it down into Meg's cleavage, sinking it deep into her chest.

Cas hears Sam gasp as Meg convulses, her limbs shaking spasmodically. Shock flashes across her face, and strange lights began to pulse inside her body, flashes of red and orange and yellow, illuminating her bones in a grotesque, Halloween-ish silhouette. Dean gives the knife a jerk, and she crumples to the ground, the lights slowly dying out in fading flickers, leaving her eyes blank and her body limp.

Dean yanks the knife out, wiping it clean on Meg's naked hip. "Who's next?"

Balthazar rises from the chaise while Crowley and Gabriel jump up from their game, knocking dice and chips bone fragments from the table as they rush at the trio. Cas feels an overwhelming fear until Sam grabs his arm and shakes him, then giving him a thumbs up with a nod. Cas nods back. _What? Who's the patient here?_ He turns to find Gabriel almost on top of him, and he barely has time to throw a handful of salt in the demon's face. Gabriel screams and spits, giving Cas the room to pull out a squirt water bottle and squeeze it over him. Steam rises off Gabriel's body and his teeth show in a horrid grimace. He rushes Cas again and Cas yells in pure fear. Nothing in his life has ever prepared him for something like this--a hand-to-hand combat in a dream world with demons. Another squirt, more steam and shrieks, and suddenly Gabriel is flashing like Meg, a demonic Japanese lantern throwing light everywhere, until he too crumples and lies empty and still.

Sam is stupefied by fear, facing all the demons that have tormented him his entire life. Suddenly Dean and Cas look much smaller and frailer than they did in Cas' office. But then Dean turns his face a bit and winks at him-- _winks_ \--and Sam is irrationally emboldened. At least they are going to try, and if they don't make it, well . . . he's with Dean, and that's enough for the moment.

Dean is stabbing Meg, and everyone else seems to be moving too rapidly. Sam clutches his salt canister in one hand and his holy water bottle in the other. Balthazar is closest to him, and sure enough the tall, slim demon approaches him. He's still naked from fucking Meg--dead Meg, lying there like a Meg-skin rug--and Sam is momentarily distracted and amused by the way the demon's dick is flopping around as he moves, a string of semen still hanging from the tip. It's undignified and comical--words he's never used to describe a demon before. Then Balthazar's long arms are reaching for him, and it's not funny anymore.

Sam kicks him in the groin, then squirts him with a good stream of holy water. He gasps as steam billows off Balthazar's skin, reddening it and eating at it like acid. Balthazar screams at him, "You wretch! You urchin! We should have ended you a long time ago!" as he renews his attack on Sam. Sam can't even think about his words; he's too busy flinging salt and dousing Balthazar with more holy water. Balthazar's blue irises are pitch black now, and not just the pupil but the entire eye. It's the creepiest thing Sam's ever seen, and he redoubles his efforts, strengthened by fear now instead of being weakened by panic. 

There's a light show flashing out of the corner of his eye, and Sam realizes Dean must have stabbed another demon. He wonders how many are left, but he keeps fighting. There's no time to look.

Except now it's Balthazar that's lighting up like a bonfire, his bones standing out stark and black against the inferno of his body. And Sam can catch his breath at last; he's still panting, heart pounding, knees wobbly, but sucking air into spasming lungs.

Crowley appears to be looking for an exit, running along the back and side walls like an ant, trying to sneak away. Unfortunately for him, Alastair--apparently content so far to simply watch his minions fight and die--sees his furtive movements and grabs him with a bony hand. "Crowley, my dear fellow, where _are_ you going? How can you miss the fun?" Crowley whimpers something, cringing abjectly, and Alastair throws back his head and laughs a rich, throaty laugh. "Oh no, you simply _must_ stay! I _insist!_ "

He throws Crowley onto the rack and has him tied down in a flash. Sam shivers, remembering the innumerable times he's lain there, and he almost feels sorry for Crowley. Almost. For a second. But that is dashed away by Crowley cursing at him, spittle flying from his lips. "You should be dead! I'm not dying for the likes of you! You disgusting ass--"

Alastair delivers a mighty slap to Crowley's cheek, shutting him up and mixing blood in with the spittle. He draws a long, curved scimitar, with which he gestures over Crowley's head. "Cowardice? Betrayal? I have no time for these, Crowley, nor do I have time for craven scum like you!"

The scimitar swings down, and Crowley's head bumps along the floor even as his limbs give a final shudder and jerk. Blood pours from both the body on the rack and the head rocking gently on the floor, a dark burgundy pool that reflects the torchlight.

Chuck and Kevin are in the corner, where they've turned their backs to the fighting, and they clutch each other as they press themselves against the stony wall. Sam knows Chuck and Kevin probably aren't any kind of threat, but he doesn't know if Dean recognizes that. Cas is panting off to Sam's side, and Sam realizes he is puffing too. Dean's breathing hard as he faces Alastair, but it's under control. Technically, it's three to three, but with the two scholars out of the battle, it's three to one. Sam thinks those should be good odds for them.

But that one . . . is Alastair.


	4. Chapter 4

Cas concentrates on slowing his breathing down. Between his fear and and the fighting, he's puffing hard. Morning jogs apparently do not suffice as battle training.

He glances at Sam and is surprised at how contained the teenager looks. Sure, he's pale and sweaty and the whites of his eyes are showing, but his hands firmly grip his salt and holy water, his jaw is clenched, and his stance is steady.

_What_ is _this boy? How is all of this swirling around him? What makes him the nexus?_ Cas wonders briefly. So many new questions to ask . . .but not until after this. He knows they are not done yet. Alastair still stands before them.

"Now, Dean, look what you've done. My lackeys are all dead. Of course, they are just dead in here. Out there, they still live." Alastair snaps his fingers, and the dead demons all vanish. He smirks at Sam. "This may be your dream, sweet thing, but I hold all the strings."

"We're cutting those strings. And I don't care if we have to fight them all over again out there. I want Sam to be free of you. He's suffered his whole life with you lot, and it's over." Dean's voice is gravelly and filled with authority.

"Oh, really! This is delightful! You're such a _manly_ man now, Dean. I think I need to throw you into a harpy's nest, or find some hungry succubi. Yes, that's it, some nice, needy succubi. After all, aren't you a virile ladies' man? You'll fuck anyone halfway decent! Succubi, they'll fuck you so very hard, almost to death, then let you revive, and do it over and over again. You'll learn to cringe from a caress, scream every time you're being ridden or penetrated, and every inescapable orgasm will be filled with pain and horror instead of pleasure. Yes, I think that sounds perfect for you, you filthy manslut!"

Cas sees Sam whip around to face Dean, his eyes questioning and hurt. His soft mouth quivers, and Cas thinks, _He's so young, he just doesn't know anything. Young men have sex, especially young men who look like Dean. That's all it's been, Sam. I don't think there's any question how he feels about you, now that he's found you._ But, of course, it's no time for intimate discussions about sex and relationships. Cas hopes they get that time. He honestly doesn't know how this is going to end, and as if this whole dream scenario isn't scary enough, _that_ realization scares the shit out of him.

Dean refuses to be distracted. "I'm going to kill you in here, Alastair, and then I'm gonna find you and your crew out there, and I'm gonna kill you all over again. Gonna make it _stick._ " He suddenly rushes the demon, grabbing the cart of torture implements and driving it hard into Alastair's lanky body. Alastair lurches back and Dean follows up with a lunge, now kicking the cart away and moving in for a close attack. His left hand grips Alastair's arm and pulls it away as his right drives in with the knife. The razor sharp blade sinks easily into Alastair's belly, piercing the pristine apron. Bright blood soaks into it, creating a grotesque Rorschach pattern across his torso. In his shock, Cas's mind idly discerns the shape of a lopsided moth. _Losin' it, doc,_ he tells himself, feeling light-headed. _C'mon, get your shit together here!_

Alastair roars and _pushes_ the air with one hand, flinging it wide. Dean flies across the room, his back crashing against the wall with a thud. Sam yells and Cas cries out "Dean!" before turning to face Alastair himself. Throwing caution to the wind, he runs forward as he sprays holy water, yelling fiercely as steam billows from Alastair's face, now ravaged by the blessed liquid. He throws some salt, and now Sam joins him, squirting from his own bottle. Together they soak the tall demon, flailing with their salt canisters as the water eats at Alastair's pale skin.

"ENOUGH!" bellows the demon, and Cas feels the singular sensation of being hurled by a demon's power, coughing breathlessly as he too hits a wall, remaining pinned in that spot. Every bone in his body hurts, and he can't imagine how Dean, who hit much harder, is feeling right now. Even if he wasn't being restrained by the demon's power, he would not have been able to move.

If he thinks he was scared before, he was kidding himself. _This_ is true, mind-blowing terror. He just hopes he could keep from pissing himself and so retain a little dignity in death.

Sam is scared shitless. While the other demons are dead, Alastair is far more formidable than they were. Dean and Cas both are pinned against the wall, and there's no one now between him and the demon. He senses more than sees that Chuck and Kevin are still huddled together in a corner, but they can't help him.

No one can help him.

"You see, don't you? You're all alone. All alone again, just like when you were a baby." Alastair sneers at him. "Lucifer sent the wrong demon that day. My brother Azazel was powerful, yet he couldn't end you--he broke your parents into little bits, but you still lived, you puling little rat. Your parents managed to throw a ward over you, and we haven't been able to get to you directly all these years." He snickered nastily. "Not that we haven't had fun, right, Sammy-boy? Oh, we've had lots of fun! It's been a treat to play inside your mind, joggle things loose in your head! Everyone thinks 'oh, Sammy, he's a raving lunatic!' but it's just us monkeying with the gears!" He roars with laughter.

Sam is frozen. What is all this crap? What is Alastair _saying?_ His teeth hurt from gritting so hard, and his hands are locked into claws on his salt and water bottles. He wants to run away, to hide, but, oh god, he wants to _know._

Alastair comes closer, so close that Sam can see every bit of holy water-riddled skin on his face. The whole lower half of the butcher's apron is crimson now, and it's so saturated that the fluid is starting to drip onto the stone floor. Alastair doesn't heed it. His pale eyes positively sparkle with malicious glee as he leans over to Sam's ear.

"You've not crazy, Samuel. You've just had us inside you, ever since that lovely night that your parents died. Isn't that delicious? And then Mumsy and Daddums warded you, and--poof!--you couldn't talk anymore! You couldn't tell anyone anything, because they didn't want you to talk about what you saw, in order to _protect_ you!"

Alastair's breath on Sam's ear is cold, and it smells like rotting meat and swamp gas. He wants to retch but fights it back, breathing hard. When Alastair's fingers clasp the back of his neck, though, he can't help yelping as he jumps, but another finger--bony and cold as death itself--is firmly pressed to his lips. He has to close his eyes to keep from vomiting at the touch.

"And now, here we are. You're about to turn twenty-two, and do you know what happens then?" The oily voice continues, "The ward ends, my dear boy. Ten years done and _poof!_ You'll be unprotected. And _then,_ dear Samuel, _then_ we shall truly have . . . . a good time. Such a very, _very_ good time!" He cackles, thankfully stepping back a pace from Sam, who gulps clean air gratefully.

"Why?"

Sam and Alastair both look over to Cas, whose raspy voice shakes, but his words are clear. He is still pinned to the wall, watching them closely from his imprisonment. 

"Why what?" asks Alastair, clearly perplexed at being questioned by this annoying human.

"Why him? Why kill his parents? Why torment him all these years? What's so special about Sam?" the doctor questioned persistently. "There must be a reason. What's the big deal?"

"Yeah," chimes in Dean, still stuck on his wall as well. "What's the big deal? Gotta be a ton of dark-haired young men that can float your boat."

Alastair chuckles. "Oh yes, so many boys out there, but only one _Sam._ Only one who has been bred through the centuries to be the ultimate, the perfect, the unique vessel for our dear lord, Lucifer. The one that will be able to hold him, contain his diabolical essence, and let him walk the Earth as a free being. Such an honor, dear boy, such a beautiful sacrifice!" He sighs, making Sam gag again, chilling him as that bony finger runs down the length of his face. "And I will be the one to present you to him, and so I will be his right hand everlasting!"

"Fuck that! That's never happening!" Dean struggles against the force field holding him against the wall. " _Fuck you,_ you evil piece of shit!"

Alastair draws himself up, anger convulsing his face. "Silence, you little worm! You walking excrement! Do not meddle in the affairs of your _betters!_ " He raises his hand.

Sam is terrified. _No! No! Not Dean! You can't kill Dean! I can't lose him!_ He's bone-deep terrified, but goddamn if he isn't angry too. He's furious, angrier than he can ever remember being in his life. Sam's life has been sad and gloomy and unhappy and pissy, but this flood of pure rage is new to him. He feels it course throughout his body, like fiery liquid filling his limbs, his belly, his head. He thinks for a second that he's literally going to explode.

His arms come up of their own volition, hands splayed rigidly, palms facing out. Sam watches in terror and awe as light bursts from his palms. Two fat beams of white light shoot out and strike Alastair, who falls back like he was hit by an elephant. His angry expression changes to fear-- _fear_ \--as the light bathes him, hiding him from sight as it envelopes his lanky body. Sam screams then, not knowing what is happening, and then the light winks out, leaving the room dark as Sam's eyes struggle to adjust.

Alastair lies on the floor, scorched and shriveled, his body a blackened, smoking husk. His shoes have fallen to either side, because there's not enough feet left to hold them. Sam feels a faint giddy giggle inside when he sees that, but he's pretty sure it's hysteria and bites his lip to stay quiet.

Cas and Dean are free now, the force field ceasing with Alastair's demise, and they rush over to Sam, patting him all over to see if he is okay. Dean grabs his face and stars into his eyes, murmuring "Christo". He relaxes when nothing happens, and kisses Sam, whispering words of love and reassurance. Cas gives Sam a huge smile before going over to Alastair to check out the remains.

"No doubt about this," he says. "Wow. That was . . . I don't even know how to . . ." He shakes his head in wonder.

Dean keeps an arm across Sam's shoulders as he turns around at a rustle. Chuck and Kevin, still clutching each other, sidle out of their corner.

"What are you . . .what are you going to do with us?" Kevin says, his voice quavering.

Dean asks, "Are you demons too?"

The two men shake their heads. "We're prophets," says Chuck. "Both of us. Alastair captured us as trophies and potential hostages. He wanted to see if we could help predict how the battle for Earth would go. Fortunately, he thought we were boring, so he left us largely alone."

Cas says with awe, " _Prophets?_ Like, you foretell things? Predict destinies?"

The two prophets exchange glances. "We don't know everything," admits Kevin. "We get . . . flashes. Sometimes it just makes things more confusing, but sometimes--it makes a difference."

Chuck nods, his large, soulful blue eyes looking tenderly at Sam. "I'm so sorry," he says gently. "We didn't see what was going to happen to your parents. It might not have even made a difference, but we just never saw it at all." He reaches out and squeezes Sam's shoulder.

Dean and Cas both stare at him. Sam suddenly realizes that someone just touched him. Someone who wasn't Dean, and nothing happened. He's excited, but he's also so exhausted now that he can't parse it out. He looks at Dean, eyes wide.

". . . Dean?" he whispers.

Dean's eyes never leave him, looking at him intently as he replies, "Sammy?"

Sam throws himself at Dean, wraps his arms around him, presses his entire body against Dean. He closes his eyes to keep the tears back, tears of fear and release and--finally--joy. They leak out of his eyes anyway and course down his cheeks as Dean's arms come up to hold him. Gently at first, then tighter as Dean too realizes there's no screams, no meltdown, no blackout.

They're standing in the most hellish place Cas could ever imagine, and yet there is joy radiating in the dungeon. The two young men embracing are practically glowing, completely wrapped up in each other for a few glorious moments. Cas looks over at Chuck, the slight, bearded man with the big blue eyes, and Kevin, the young, Asian man with dark eyes, short, black spiky hair, and a soft mouth. They too are just watching, faint smiles playing over their faces.

 _If this is the result, I can live with the rest,_ thinks Cas. This was something he wasn't sure he'd ever see--Sam in a real embrace, able to simply hold and be held by another human being.

_What a gift. Thank God for this, anyway._

The two men break apart, but Dean keeps an arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam's hand seeks out Dean's belt, as if to reassure himself Dean is there.

"Okay then . . . so that happened," Kevin says, and they all laugh a little raucously, voices loud with relief.

Cas clears his throat and asks, "What now? We go back, and . . . what?"

Chuck's face sobers. "We can't be sure. It's too difficult to see much from in here. But you're not really safe, I'm afraid. They're dead in here, but they still exist out there. Outside the dream-world bubble that we're in right now. So, beware. Be afraid so you're cautious, but be ready to fight."

Kevin says, "We'll hope to see you out there, but there are no guarantees. There's so much going on, great turmoil happening all over, and we don't know where we will all end up." He shakes his head sadly. "I'm sorry. We both are, not to be able to give you better news. But we'll do everything we can."

Dean says gruffly, "It's already been worth it. I don't plan to give up. That's not how Winchesters operate."

Sam whispers, " . . . My parents. Is it . . . true?" His eyes are huge, full of grief as he questions the prophets.

Chuck comes over to him, puts a hand on his cheek. "I'm so sorry, my boy. It's true. Azazel killed them, but he was unable to kill you. Your parents warded you for your protection before the fight, and their death sealed the ward, but also made it backfire. You could not speak, which was to keep you from babbling what would appear to be nonsense about demons, but it ended up keeping you from being able to speak at all. Because of the ward's protection, however, the forces of Hell could not touch you physically. Only in your mind were you vulnerable, which was horrific, but still not fatal."

Dean says harshly, "And the touching? Or rather, the inability to be touched?"

Kevin shakes his head. "We don't know for sure. One hypothesis is that the battle terrified the toddler Sam so much, watching his parents die so horribly, that he threw up a mental barrier to resist being touched. As a protective reaction, so no one could get close enough to him to kill him as his parents were killed. Given the power Sam just demonstrated, he's definitely capable of something like that." He shrugs and said, "It's just a theory. There could be others. But for now, it looks like that is becoming less of a problem."

Dean and Sam exchange glances and little smiles. Cas feels all twisted around inside, to be so happy for them, and yet still reeling from the awful fighting and terrible images so freshly burnt into his brain. Then Kevin's words sink into Cas's tired brain, and he couldn't believe he didn't ask this first.

"What was with those, um . . . power bolts that Sam emitted? That was . . . " He struggles to find a word, gives up. "Wild." 

_Wild? Could you be any lamer, Novak?_

Dean's snort seems to back that up, but Sam looks very small all of a sudden.

"Am I some kind of freak? Am I . . . am I a demon too?"

Both prophets shake their head emphatically. Chuck says firmly, "No demon, Sam. No freak. A young man with some very special gifts. We don't know what they are, I'm afraid--you'll have to find out on your own. You'll have to learn to use and control them, but I have every faith in you. Surviving what you already have? You have great strength, and a kind heart as well."

"You'll need both," adds Kevin. "But you can do it. And while Lucifer may want you for his own purposes, you have the power to resist him." He winks at them. "And you have Dean. I suspect he's a pretty good ally to have. And you have a hell of a doctor on your side too." He smiles at Cas.

Cas feels the last bit of adrenaline seep from his body; suddenly he wants a stiff drink very badly, but he has one last question. He's pretty sure that he'll never get to talk to a prophet again, and he wants to understand as much as he can.

"When I was looking up Alastair, I remember seeing the names Balthazar and Gabriel, but they were angels. Yet here, in this reality, they were demons just like Meg and the rest. How is that possible? Was it just part of Sam's nightmare?"

Chuck sighs, his face falling. "They _were_ angels, but Lucifer went after them. Targeted them. Ultimately, he seduced them to fall and join him in Hell. They lost their angelic grace, and instead became vile and corrupt, with all the power and attributes of any other demon." He sighes again and wipes his eyes. "It was a terrible loss to Heaven, and sickening to behold."

Cas feels sick to his stomach. That even angels could succumb to the Prince of Darkness was indeed sickening. "Is there anything we need to know right now?" he asks a bit querulously. "I have to admit, this is a little out of the scope of my usual therapy session. I'm not complaining, but I could use a shower and a drink. Or three." He tries to grin, and suspects that he's failing badly at it.

"Sure thing, Doc," Dean answeres, cracking his neck. "You guys got anything else for us? Time for this crew to get back." He snorts. "I'll join you for that drink too."

Sam nods, then breaks loose from Dean to grab Chuck in a hug. The prophet squawks in surprise, then hugg him back gently. Sam hugs Kevin next, the young men wrapping their arms around each other.

"So sorry, Sam. So very sorry for all your pain and loss," Cas hears Kevin whisper.

". . . 'S okay. Thanks . . ."

Then the trio assembles where they'd entered, all holding onto each other tightly. Chuck and Kevin wave, then take each other's hands and disappear in a bright wink of light.

"God, if I never come back here again, it'll be too soon," Dean mutters, drawing a snort from Cas and a bark of laughter from Sam. 

Dean takes Cas's hand, his other planted on Sam. "Think hard, boys. Doc's office. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . WAKE UP!"

Sam has never been so glad to see Dr. Novak's office. They're all right where they were, Sam and Dean snugged up together on the love seat, Cas slumped on the armchair. They're all yawning, stretching muscles made stiff by hours of inactivity. Cas gets up and stumbles to his door, unlocking it to check the corridor. It's empty. He returns and fishes a bottle out of a drawer in his desk, bringing it back to share with Sam and Dean.

Sam splutters a bit--he's never had liquor before. Dean takes a healthy swig, and a second. Cas throws a shot back, sighing deeply afterward. 

No one speaks for several minutes--they past the bottle a couple of times, drinking in silence.

"Well," Dean says finally. "Gotta get you back to your room, Sam." Sam nods in acquiescence. He and Dean get up from the love seat.

"Doc, I gotta say, you did great in there. That kind of thing could drive a man mad, and you rolled with it like a pro. Good job." Dean shakes Cas's hand.

"Well, you know, madness is kinda my thing," Cas quips wryly. Everyone laughs. Sam looks at his doctor and thinks, this is a man. Dean is a man, and Cas is a man; they're both the kind of man that Sam wants to be.

He steps closer to Cas, sees the blue eyes widen before he hugs him. Cas is solid, but not as big or muscular as Dean. Then he feels Cas reciprocating, the doctor's arms embracing him gently. He closes his eyes, resting his head on Cas's shoulder. The doctor sighs softly, briefly tightening his hold before releasing Sam.

Sam steps back. " . . . thank you," he whispers. Cas nods, and Sam sees the bright sparkle of tears in his eyes.

"Get some sleep, you two. We'll go over all the new developments tomorrow," Cas says gruffly.

Dean shuts the office door quietly as they exit.

Back at Sam's room, Sam pulls Dean inside.

"What are you doing?" Dean hisses. "You have to go to sleep. _I_ have to go to sleep. If _I'm_ this tired, you gotta be wrecked."

" . . . stay here. With me." Sam's voice is so soft, a little hoarse. He figures that not talking for nineteen years will do that. His throat already feels a little sore with the words he's said tonight. 

Dean cups his face in those tender, deadly hands. "Baby, we talked about this. We're not having sex while you're in here." His lips brushed Sam's, making Sam's insides do this funny, melty thing. "I wanna too, but we gotta wait, okay?"

Sam nods. "No sex. Just . . .sleep." He felt his cheeks burning. "Maybe some kisses." He ducks his head. "Just . . . wanna be with you."

Dean chuckles, warm and throaty. "Okay, Sammy. I'm too tired to resist those puppy-dog eyes. Sleep it is. _Just_ sleep." Sam raises his head and stares beseechingly at Dean, who rolls his eyes in surrender. "Okay, maybe some kisses too."

As the next week passes, Cas finds the very ordinariness of daily life surreal. He sees patients, attends meetings, runs his group therapy sessions. He eats, drinks, excretes, sleeps. There's a wispy curtain of unreality over everything, except when he sees Sam and Dean. They're bold, bright splashes of color in the hazy "real world," solid and full of life.

Dean still accompanies Sam to his daily session with Cas, even though he's no longer needed as a translator. Sam is able to talk, and talk he does. His thoughts, feelings, dreams, fantasies, all come pouring out after years of being bottled up. He still talks very little on the ward; it's like their little secret, and he doesn't want to share it with the world yet. He does communicate a little more with the world outside Cas's office, but not to the extent he does inside.

Likewise, the barrier keeping Sam isolated physically from the rest of the world has crumbled into bits. He touches Dean all the time now; they hug, kiss, cuddle, although Sam is quick to tell Cas they have not had sex yet. But they're going to, and he can't wait. He knows that it's going to be amazing. Dean usually rolls his eyes as his cheeks tint pink.

Cas tries not to blush--he's well-accustomed to discussing sex with his patients, but Sam is so eager, so innocent and yet so enthusiastic at the same time, it's a little embarrassing. Cas realizes that he's been alone a long time, just him and his right hand, and he can't even quite discern why that is. _C'mon, it's not like I'm too old. I'm not old at all. Maybe I just haven't found the right person in a while._

_Maybe I haven't even looked in a while._

Maybe he should. Life's too short, and all that. He got that message loud and clear.

Dean gives his two-week notice. He tells Cas he usually just up and leaves jobs like this, but he has a reason to wait this time, and hey--he can always use the extra money.

Sam turns twenty-two twelve days later.

Sam's birthday is tomorrow. He's so excited--this is the first birthday he remembers getting excited about in, oh, forever. He'll be twenty-two. He's already packing, and one step closer to being with Dean.

Garth comes into his open doorway.

"Hey, got a visitor, Sam."

Sam sits up straight.

"Visitor? Me?"

Garth shakes his head and smiles. "Dude, I am not used to you talking still! It's like that time Marmaduke ate the baby's talking toy, and every time he barked, he said 'mama!' Still cracks me up!" He slaps his thigh as he laughs.

Sam chuckles and rolls his eyes. Oh, Garth. "Who?"

Garth lets a last hiccup of hilarity issue forth before he wipes his eyes. "Pretty chick. Dark hair, all curly. Same last name as you."

Sam bolts out off the bed. _"Gwen?"_

"Yeah, that's it--" Garth's voice trails off as Sam pushes past him and runs down the hallway, bare feet slapping on the linoleum.

It is Gwen, and she's beside herself with happiness to see how well Sam is doing now. They talk and talk, although he never says anything to her about the dreams and nightmares he suffered; just about being better, and of course Dean. They hug several times, and there, too, she is amazed. His cheeks get sore from all the smiling, but it feels so great. When she leaves, they promise to stay in touch; Sam plans to get an email address, and then they can email each other wherever he is.

Sam talks to Cas about his plans as well. He and Dean have been discussing their future. Sam plans to leave the hospital right after his birthday. He's already a legal adult, but he knew he wouldn't have been able to function outside the hospital. Now, he's able to sign himself out for good. Cas agrees--he sees no reason for Sam to stay there. He's not insane, and his speech has been restored. Time for him to be free and experience life. And he won't be alone, because he's going with Dean. Cas feels quite certain Sam will be safe with Dean.

On the night of Sam's birthday, Dean comes to his room. He has a little plate with a cupcake on it, and a candle stuck in it. It's one of those wobbly, skinny, striped birthday candles that dribbles wax onto the frosting, and Sam loves it. It's the first birthday celebration he can remember.

He and Dean sit on his bed, sharing the cupcake. Dean runs a fingertip down Sam's cheek to remove a speck of frosting. Sam takes his hand and licks the finger, sliding the tip into his mouth and sucking on it. Dean's pupils go dark.

"Sammy, who knew you were a tease?" he murmurs huskily. Sam blushes.

"Dean, I don't . . . I never . . ." Sam suddenly feels ignorant and inadequate.

"Shh. I know. I got you, Sammy." Dean kisses him, and this Sam knows how to do. They've been kissing since the battle in the dream-dungeon, and so he eagerly opens his mouth to Dean's probing tongue, rubbing his lips against Dean's plump, spit-slick ones. He wonders if this is what being drunk feels like, because he's dazed and excited and consumed by love right now.

Dean pulls away from Sam's mouth and kisses down his long neck, licking the hollow of his throat, nibbling where his shoulders join. The feel of Dean's mouth on Sam's skin is magical, and Sam hears himself moaning softly. Dean makes little "mmm mmm" sounds as he keeps kissing across Sam's collar bone. 

Sam's loving this, but he makes himself focus a moment. "Dean . . . you said no sex while I was in the hospital. What is this . . . are we . . . gonna?" God, he wants to--every nerve in his body is clamoring for more.

Dean nuzzles his cheek, his face soft against Sam's skin. "I didn't want to while you were going through . . . all that. While you weren't free to be yourself." He kisses Sam. "Now, you're . . . you're all you. No one else. I can't wait to leave with you, but even more, I can't wait to _be_ with you. Just a little bit. Is that okay?" He looks Sam in the eyes, giving him space to decide.

It only takes Sam a second to answer, "Oh, fuck yeah!" He throws his arms around Dean's neck and smashes their mouths together, making Dean chuckle even as he responds in kind.

Dean's hands slide down Sam's sides and slip under his T-shirt, calloused fingertips rubbing his almost-ticklish sides. He slides the shirt up and Sam raises his arms so it can slip right off. It plops on the floor as Dean resumes his attentions.

"That's nice, Sammy, that's so nice . . . so pretty," Dean whispers, his hands gliding over Sam's chest. Sam never realized his entire body could feel so good, and he hangs on to Dean's broad shoulders to ground himself as Dean kisses down his chest. He licks Sam's nipple, and Sam starts and giggles for a second.

"You okay, baby?" Dean looks up, green eyes intent.

"Yeah, yeah, just . . . no one ever did that before."

"Is it okay?" Deans big green eyes regard him, his hands still slowly rubbing all over Sam, making him feel happy and confused all at once. "Does it feel all right?"

"Yeah, feels nice . . . just didn't expect it." Sam wants him to do it again, but feels shy about asking.

Dean presses his mouth to a nipple, gently sucking the tiny nub in. Sam gasps at the hotwet sensation, unconsciously arching his back a little to press into Dean's mouth. Dean chuckles without dislodging his lips, and the vibration elicits an "Oh!" from Sam. 

Releasing the nipple, Dean moves to the other one and repeats his actions. Sam feels very tingly now, little electric prickles shooting through his body. He moves restlessly, craving more, if only he knew what. He reaches for Dean and copies him, running his hands over Dean's muscular chest and shoulders, down his thick biceps. Dean continues sucking and flicking his tongue over the nipple, now alternating between them. Every switch ramps Sam up higher, until he's panting and pushing himself against Dean's mouth.

Sam's dick is hard as a rock in his pants now, and he manages to whimper to Dean, "Please . . . more? Touch me, please touch me . . ." He forces himself to move away from Dean so that he can fumble at his scrubs and push them down, exposing his hospital-issue boxers that are now obscenely tented, the thin knit clinging to Sam's swollen cock. A small damp patch is already visible.

"Damn, Sammy, just as big as I remember," says Dean appreciatively. "You're about to tear outta those boxers." He tugs on Sam and pulls him back to his side. "Kiss me again and we'll get rid of these pesky pants for both of us." Sam gladly obliges, kissing Dean deeply, one hand buried in Dean's spiky hair.

"Yeah, that's it. Off with those boxers, Sammy, release the kraken!" Sam laughs and smacks Dean a little before standing and ridding himself of his boxers and the scrubs that were down to his knees.

Immediately, he's extremely nervous, standing naked before Dean. Dean is tall and well-built, heavy muscles creating hard curves, a full-grown man. Sam is tall, but still rather skinny from his age and hospital life, with wiry muscles rather than bulky. But if Dean's gaze is anything to go by, he's pleased. He runs a hand from Sam's shoulder down to his hip, watching how his cock bobs in reaction. He traces the faint lines of Sam's abs, slides his hands around to cup Sam's ass. Sam's dick approves of all of this, jerking and dancing in response to Dean's touch. Pre-come beads up on the tip, and Dean leans down to lick it off, his tongue probing the slit, licking the sticky fluid out.

Sam thinks he might come right then and there. Feeling Dean's hot tongue on his dick is the best thing he could ever imagine. He's dizzy, grabbing onto Dean to keep from falling. Dean pulls him back onto the bed and kisses him. He tastes a little salty, a little sour, and Sam is gobsmacked to realize he's tasting himself. Just that realization is enough to make more pre-come blurt out and trail down his cock. Dean wraps his hand around it and strokes, spreading the fluid up and down the shaft, teasing the tip with his thumb. Sam's body is totally on autopilot now--his brain has stopped functioning. His hips buck involuntarily, making his dick thrust up into Dean's firm grip.

Sam hears a mewling noise, something between a moan and a whimper, and a little jolt of fear shoots through him. Are the demons coming back? Did someone come into the room while he was so lost to Dean's lovemaking? He clutches Dean harder, his hips still twisting into Dean's fist, and Dean gives a little laugh.

"Oh, sweetheart, you are so fucking hot! I love every sound, every movement you make. So responsive, baby--Jesus, you're turning me on so much! Can you touch me, Sammy? Please?"

It dawns on Sam that _he's_ making the mewling noise, and he's embarrassed again for a second. He thinks how much more intimate this sex business is than he even expected--every inch of his body laid bare, every reaction exposing his need, every sound his emotion. Then he looks at Dean, _really_ looks, and he sees his partner is in the same situation. Dean is now naked before him, his cock as hard and eager as Sam's, his body laid out for Sam's pleasure. Dean is breathing hard, clearly holding himself back so as not to rush Sam, in his inexperience. Clear fluid is drooling down Dean's dick, riding the fat shaft, tracing along the thick vein that snakes down it. He's hairless where Sam has dark, coarse curls; even his balls are bare skin, swollen spheres in their taut sac.

Sam reaches out and cups Dean's scrotum, marveling at how heavy it feels. He jiggles it, rolling the fat ovoids a little inside the thin skin containing them. Dean grunts softly, his hand gripping his own cock and squeezing at the base. Sam's fascinated by his penis, now that he feels free to examine it, and he gets close so he can look at every feature. The column of it is thick and dark pink, and the head is a spongy, round helmet of even darker pink flesh, with a dimpled slit at the apex from which the pre-come is now steadily trickling. Unthinking, Sam touches it delicately, collecting it on a finger and then bringing it to his mouth.

_Dean._

"Jesus fuck, Sammy, you're killing me here. Please, touch me, let me touch you--I need you so bad. What do you want, baby? I need you!" He draws Sam's face back to his and kisses him passionately. Their cocks bump together--warm and hard, the slick of their combined pre-come easing the friction to a pleasurable level.

Sam immediately begins to thrust again, letting his body dictate his actions. The tight squeeze of fucking into a fist is replaced by the pressure of dick against dick. Dean's hips get moving too, pushing back against Sam; Dean grabs his ass, squeezing his cheeks, and uses that as leverage to buck up against Sam. Sam's gasps at this new sensation are swallowed by Dean's hungry mouth, and they kiss harder and sloppier as their arousal mounts. Sam's arms wind around Dean's shoulders as Dean continues to knead his ass and keep him firmly in place as they rut.

Inarticulate moans and whimpers pour from Sam as they fuck against each other, mouths locked together. He feels heat building in his balls, swirling in his thighs and belly, causing him to move faster and harder. Dean is right there with him, judging by how tight he's holding Sam and how hard his hips are rutting. Their cocks are pressed tightly together, sliding faster as they get wetter, pistoning hotly.

"Fuck, baby! Fuck! Love you! ohhh, _fuck,_ Sammy!" Dean breaks the kiss and moans. Sam feels Dean's cock pulsing just as hot liquid shoots between them. Between Dean's cries and the extra wetness from his ejaculation, Sam's body short-circuits and he comes like a rocket, spurting jizz all over their bellies, his balls squeezing like they'll never stop. His eyes are slammed shut so hard he's seeing lights, and he can feel tears seeping through the lids, he's so utterly blissed out. No self-administered orgasm he'd ever had compared to this, with feeling his incredible lover's body moving against his; their lips, hips, cocks, and souls as close as two people could ever be.

Cas waits for Sam and Dean to arrive at his office. He shuffles some papers on his desk to one side, pulling the folder labeled "Campbell, Sam" to the center. It's a thick folder; Sam has a long history of life spent in hospitals and institutions. Cas sighs--so many years of suffering, for someone so young. But at least it's over.

The file will be closed today.

There's a knock and the two young men enter. Dean is grinning, but Sam's smile rivals the sunbeams streaming into the tall windows of the office. He comes right over to Cas and hugs him.

"Big day, Sam. You ready?" Cas asks. He ruffles Sam's long brown hair.

"Yes! So ready, Dr. Novak." Sam pulls Dean up. "Tell him, Dean."

Dean says, "Sam's all packed up, what he has anyway. We'll get him some more clothes and stuff." He looks Cas directly in the eyes. "He's leaving with me. I'm going back on the road, and he's going to come with me. I'll teach him how to hunt." He smiles fondly at Sam, who's still beaming. "Always thought I liked hunting alone best. Guess I was wrong."

Cas can't help basking in their happiness, but he also can't help feeling concerned.

"Isn't it dangerous?" The words sound stupid as soon as they leave his mouth.

Dean ignores the näiveté of Cas' question and simply answers it. "It's dangerous. Crazy dangerous. But with what he's already been through? He can handle it. And we'll both be safer for watching each other's backs." He threw an arm around Sam's shoulders and squeezed. "I can teach him how to fight and how to shoot, shit like that. I can't teach him how to be brave. And he's got that in spades."

Cas nods in agreement. They were all quiet a moment as they recalled the battle they'd shared.

"There's a lot of other evil shit out there, like what we fought in my mind," Sam says soberly. "I want to fight it, help other people who are suffering like I did. And long the way, we'll keep an eye out for the demons. Especially the one who killed my parents." His eyes are dark and sad.

"Okay then, Sam. Here's the release papers." Cas hands Sam a pen, and they address the various forms, Cas quietly pointing out where Sam needs to sign, as well as signing himself as Sam's doctor. Dean sits and waits patiently.

"There you go, Sam. All done."

Dean stands up and hugs Sam. Once again, Cas is struck by the palpable bond they already have.

Fuck, he's going to miss them.

Dean breaks the hug and turns to Cas. "Doc, thanks for everything." The words could be banal, but Cas knows that Dean means them to the depth of his heart. It's all right there in those remarkable green eyes.

"Dean." They embrace, and Cas is warmed by Dean's strength and affection.

Sam's eyes are brimming now, as Cas turns to him.

"Oh, Sam, no. It's okay." Cas enfolds the tall, lanky boy in his arms. Sam starts to cry against his shoulder. "Shh, shh. It's okay. You're going to go live now. It's what I want for you. It's what you want too."

Sam's head nods against his shoulder. The fabric is damp with tears.

"I do want it. Want it so bad. Just . . . going to miss you."

Cas squeezes him. "Going to miss you too. Both of you." He pushes gently on Sam's shoulders, prying him away so they can make eye contact. "You email me, okay? All the time. And if you guys need me, you call. I will always help you."

Sam nods shakily again, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"C'mon, I'll walk you two out."

The trio walks out of Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital into the sunshine. Dean's vintage car, a '67 black Impala that's polished within an inch of its life, is parked in the semi-circular driveway.

"Nice wheels," Cas says admiringly. His blue Prius suddenly seems tame.

Dean preens. "She's my baby. Well, her and Sam." Sam elbows him in the ribs, and they all laugh.

"Not saying goodbye again, so . . . be well. Be safe." Cas feels his own tears are imminent, so he waves and turns around, hastening to the front door they just came through. He turns to look at them one last time through the glass, before turning and resolutely walking away.

Dean picks up Sam's small suitcase and his backpack, popping open the trunk and tossing the bags inside. He pauses, hand still on the open trunk, and looks at Sam.

"Sammy . . . are you sure?"

Sam crosses to stand in front of Dean, his jaw set, his shoulders squared. He looks into the trunk at his things, all jumbled next to Dean's duffels, then back into Dean's eyes.

"C'mon, Dean . . .we've got work to do."

**Fin**


End file.
